Gordon H. Clark

Religion, Reason and Revelation

Gordon Haddon Clark

The Trinity Foundation

Religion, Reason and Revelation

Copyright © 1961

Lois A. Zeller and Elizabeth Clark George
Second edition Copyright © 1995
John W. Robbins
Third edition Copyright © 2012
Laura K. Juodaitis

Cover art by Godwell Chan (www.qodwellontheloose.com )

All rights reserved.

Published by The Trinity Foundation
Post Office Box 68
Unicoi, Tennessee 37692
www.trinityfoundation.org

ISBN-10: 1-891777-30-0
ISBN- 13: 978-1-891777-30-1

Contents

Foreword

Foreword to the Second Edition

Is Christianity a Religion?

Unity and Multiformity
A Disconcerting Disjunction

The Psychological Approach

Emotion versus Intellect
Preconceived Notions
John Bunyan and Jonathan Edwards
Does Description Explain?

Does Description Discover?
Description and Presupposition
Integration of Personality

The Comparative Method

Is God Essential to Religion?

The Hunting of the Snark
Common Human Needs
Meaningful Words

Christianity

Definition of Christianity
The Religions
Christian Conversion
Sin

Faith and Reason

Reason and Faith

Natural Theology
The Cosmological Argument
David Hume and Charles Hodge

Reason without Faith

Early Irreligion
Rationalism
Empiricism
Immanuel Kant
Hegel and His Critics
Absolute Ignorance

Faith without Reason

Types of Mysticism
Karl Marx
Soren Kierkegaard
Friedrich Nietzsche
William James
Emil Brunner

Faith and Reason

Popular Religion
The Analysis of Personality
T rust and Assent
Anti-intellectualism
The Reformed Faith
Definition of Reason

Inspiration and Language

The Biblical Claims
The Dictation Objection

Contemporary Theories

Religious Language
Linguistics

Naturalism and Behaviorism
The Symbolic Theory

Theistic Linguistics

Theology versus Language
Literal Language

Logical Positivism

Revelation and Morality

Ethical Disagreement

Utilitarianism

The Greatest Good of the Greatest Number
Calculation
The Good

Values in Experience

Dewey and Instrumentalism

Changing Morality
Values in Experience
Security and Scientific Ethics
Evil Ideals
Murder

Is Life Worth Living?

Concluding Criticism

Christian Ethics

The Divine Legislator
Ethics and Theology
Divine Sovereignty
A Contemporary Example
Abraham, the Father of Us All

God and Evil

Historical Exposition
Free Will

Reformation Theology
Gill's Exegesis
Omniscience

Responsibility and Free Will
The Will of God
Puppets

Appeal to Ignorance
Responsibility and Determinism

Distortions and Cautions
Deo Soli Gloria

Crisis of Our Time
Intellectual Ammunition

Foreword

In the midst of all the apologetical nonsense prevalent in the church today,
Religion, Reason and Revelation is a breath of fresh air with its clear and
Biblical defense of Christianity. With the majority of Christians, both Reformed
and Evangelical, following the apologetic of the “angelic doctor” of the Roman
Catholic Church-State, Thomas Aquinas, and others in the Reformed camp
following the presuppositionalism of Cornelius Van Til, with its analogical truth
and acceptance of paradox and antimony, Biblical Christianity has been left
defenseless. God is faithful, however, and in the anti-intellectual 20th Century he
raised up Gordon H. Clark, who defended Christianity on the basis of the Word of
God alone. In 2004 Religion, Reason and Revelation was combined with
Introduction to Christian Philosophy and Three Types of Religious Philosophy
in Christian Philosophy, Volume 4 of The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark. It
went out of print as a single volume. The Trinity Foundation is pleased to publish
Dr. Clark’s apologetical masterpiece as a single volume again.

Thomas W. Juodaitis
August 2011

Foreword to the Second Edition

R eligion, Reason and Revelation is one of the greatest defenses of the
Christian faith ever written. It is a model of scholarship and analysis; in it Dr.
Clarkrefutes both the broad philosophical movements that oppose Christianity and
the specific contentions of many modern authors. It is astonishing to realize just
how comprehensive a defense this book is: Clark devastates the superficial notion
that Christianity is not unique - that Christianity belongs to a category called
Religion - a notion that is the foundation of all ecumenical movements over the
last two centuries; he eviscerates logical positivism and pragmatism; he
emasculates empiricism, rationalism, and materialism; and he dispassionately
dismemebers and disposes of Thomas, Kant, Hegel, Kierkegaard, Marx,
Bentham, Nietzsche, and Dewey.

Religion, Reason and Revelation, however, does not conclude with the
philosophical destruction of non-Christian philosophies; Clark goes on to
show how Biblical Christianity answers the questions and solves the
problems - including the problem of evil - that other philosophies and
religions leave unanswered and unsolved. The result is a splendid feast for
the mind and a triumphant defense of Christian truth. Religion, Reason and
Revelation well deserves its reputation as an apologetical masterpiece. Let
both the student and the teacher read these pages and learn how the faith
ought to be defended.

John W. Robbins
June 1995

Is Christianity a Religion?

Is there such a thing as religion of which Christianity is one manifestation?
This question is important for two reasons: Its answer will influence and reveal
what a person believes Christianity to be; and on a broader scale it will determine
the method that ought to be used in formulating a philosophy of religion.
Therefore let us ask the question a second time in a slightly different form. Is
Christianity a species of a genus? Whether this is answered affirmatively or
negatively, certain further problems are introduced. If Christianity is a species of
the genus religion, how is religion to be defined and what are Christianity’s
differentiating characteristics? If it is not, what sort of philosophy of religion can
there be, and what sort of philosophy of Christianity can there be? Apparently the
first step in examining these questions must be the definition of religion. What is
religion?

Unity and Multiformity

Religion is familiar to the common man in every age and nation. He
performs its simple or complicated rites; he believes its doctrines.
However justified may be the orthodox complaint or the atheistic exultation
that a particular religion is losing its hold on the people, the ineradicable
experiences still remain a familiar force. Among the learned too, it is a
familiar subject of discussion. Of the making of many books on the general
subject of Religion, the Psychology of Religion, the Philosophy of Religion,
and the History of Religion, there is no end. But although religion is a
phenomenon as multiform as it is familiar, both these characteristics
contribute to the difficulty of understanding it.

No one denies the multiformity. There is Christianity, and there is
Mohammedanism; and further there are Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, the
religions of the interior of Africa, and of the isles of the seas. Yet
notwithstanding their great differences, they are all popularly unified under
the single term religion. Can such a unification survive scholarly analysis?
Is it really possible to gather all these under one definition so that they can
be discussed together as one subject? In botany, for example, the
Nightshade, the Indian Cucumber-root, the Bellwort, the Lily of the Valley,
Solomon's Seal, Asparagus, and the Star of Bethlehem are all gathered
together and discussed under the Lily Family. All the members of the Lily
Family have certain characteristics in common, characteristics which tie
them together in one Family and at the same time differentiate them from

other Families. Cannot the same thing be done for religions?

As may be expected, this way of looking at the matter has been tried.
Not only so, but it is the usual method of procedure. It seems to be only
common sense. For example, Winston L. King, in his Introduction to
Religion, writes that religions are one as well as many. Although he makes
the obscure denial that they have any common denominator "of a neutral
sort," there is "some sort of unity" and there are "actual likenesses." At the
end of eighty pages he concludes, "We have been trying to use the term
'religion' as well as 'religions' with the confidence that it has some
distinguishing meaning." Such phrases as these in an eighty-page attempt to
define religion indicate the presence of difficulties. Apparently botany is an
easier subject than religion. But another author shows more confidence.

Professor William E. Hocking, in Living Religions and a World Faith,
commences by asserting, "In its nature religion is universal and one." As a
matter of fact, Hocking means more by this assertion than that religion is
one in the sense that all the members of the Lily Family are one Family,
for he goes further and complains that the plurality of religions is a scandal
to the religious man himself, to the philosopher, and to the statesman who
wishes to unify his community. But why should it be scandal? The plurality
of lilies is no scandal to the botanist. Should the plurality of religions be
scandalous to the philosopher? And however scandalous the plurality of
religions may be to the "statesman" who wishes to unify his community,
this very plurality may seem a blessing to freedom-loving individuals who
think that some societies have been too thoroughly unified already. What
can religion be, if it is a more perfect unity than the generic unities of
botany? Why should the unity of religion exclude specific differences?

In a later volume, The Coming World Civilization, Professor Hocking
repeats his vigorous assertions of unity. In the fifth section of the book, to
justify the identification of all religions in essence, he argues that
"affirmation is not exclusion" (137). According to Hocking, the Christian
faith, and a fortiori the Buddhist doctrine, do not offer themselves as
hypotheses competing with other hypotheses. Each one says, This is a Way
to peace; and such an affirmation does not exclude other Ways. In a sense
there is an Only Way, but it is not the Only Way of a particular religion. It
is a universal way. The essence of the precepts and doctrines that mystics
in all religions have discerned is the same. The agreements are not even
mere similarities; they are identities. Thus the Only Way is not the Way

that marks off one religion from another, but "it is the Way already present
in all.... The several universal religions are already fused together, so to
speak, at the top." HI

Naturally such a view stimulates many questions. For example, it may be
asked, Does Hocking base his statements on an empirical study of the
several religions? Is this what the religions assert or admit? How does
Hocking obtain the conclusion that the doctrines of all religions are
essentially identical? If this is only what some mystics in every religion
say, can the student of religion accept the mystical evaluation and
disregard what other members of the same religions assert? It is
undeniable at least that Hocking's principle, "affirmation is not exclusion," is
in conflict with the explicit teachings of some religions. Christ's statement
in the Gospel, "No one comes to the Father except through me," is
decisively exclusive. Similarly, the Apostle said, "There is no other name
under Heaven given among men by which we must be saved." Hocking
would have to hold that Christ is not essential to Christianity. But of course
this criticism is premature, for at the beginning it seems reasonable -
especially for one who is writing a book on religion - to assume that there
must be some sort of unity, either a generic unity or some still deeper
kind, that makes religion a single subject of discussion.

A Disconcerting Disjunction

Promising and even necessary though this principle may appear, its
application is already seen to be attended with great difficulty. Perhaps the
very familiarity of religious experience is one cause of its stubborn defiance
of analysis. At any rate, a comparison of the many volumes on religion
discloses a disconcerting disjunction. Either, in spite of the similarity of
titles, the authors are not writing about the same subject, or, in spite of
the length of the books and their learned vocabulary, they do not know what
they are writing about.

The first half of this disjunction reflects those authors who - like King -
frankly, courageously, and commendably formulate an explicit definition of
religion. A frank attempt is reasonable because one expects a writer to
state what subject he intends to study. But a quick survey of these
definitions shows that the more definite the authors are, the more
obviously they are not talking about the same thing. King virtually includes
a belief in God in his definition - at least he spells Object of devotion with

a capital 0, and further emphasizes it in the following chapter (74ff.). Julian
Huxley, on the other hand, in Religion Without Revelation, says that the
essential religious reality is not God, but a sense of the sacred, which, like
the feeling of hunger or the emotion of anger, is irreducible. Although this
latter definition is not so definite in its affirmation as in its denial, it is still
definite enough to see that King and Huxley are not talking about the same
thing when they use the term religion. There are other humanistic
definitions of religion that may be taken as vague or definite, depending on
how one looks at them. The Humanist Manifesto constitutes religion as
those actions, purposes, and experiences which are humanly significant.
Now this may be vague and meaningless; but if it is taken at literal face
value and assigned an intelligible meaning, an interesting question comes to
the fore. Is not an appendectomy humanly significant? Then it follows that
appendectomies are religious exercises. It is evident, therefore, that what
the humanists call religion is not the same thing that other authors are
discussing. Once more, William James was definite enough when he spoke
of religion as the experiences of men in their solitude; but other writers are
definite in defining religion as social. And the devout worshiper in any of the
several religions might not like any of these definitions. Clearly what one
man calls religion, another does not recognize as such. The more definite
the definition is, the more clearly the writers are not writing on the same
subject.

This difficulty gives rise to the second half of the disjunction above:
Some writers do not know what they are writing about. They recognize the
impossibility of defining religion and rely on its familiarity to satisfy the
reader. L.W. Grensted, in The Psychology of Religion, remarks in his
Foreword that the subject is nebulous and ill-defined; no one part of it has
any clear logical or scientific priority; "there is always a lurking doubt
whether religion is a proper study for psychology at all." And a few pages
later he admits, "The definition of religion is impossible.... Thus the only
means of saying what we mean by religion must be empirical, descriptive,
and accumulative. We must in fact return to.. .what ordinary folk understand
by religious behavior."[2] This initial admission of failure, however, does not
prevent the gentleman from writing his book - a humorous paradox that he
himself seems to enjoy.

Now, there are powerful reasons for accepting the position that religion
cannot be defined. In fact, such is the main conclusion of this chapter. It

will be shown definitely that we cannot with confidence, to repeat a phrase
from King, assume that religion has a distinguishable meaning. This
conclusion sometimes leads to the clear-sighted muddle-headedness of
Grensted. There is, however, another alternative to be mentioned later. But,
for the moment, and particularly at the opening of the discussion, one
should not merely assume the impossibility of defining religion. It is better
to examine the two chief methods used in attempting to frame a definition;
and, if in doing so, we are fairly convinced that the problem is insoluble, we
shall have learned the precise reasons for the failure.

The Psychological Approach

In general, two methods have been used to distinguish religion from other
subjects of study. The second method - based on examining the
multiformity of Mohammedanism, Shintoism, Brahminism, and so on - may
be named the comparative method. But first to be considered is the
psychological approach, based on the intimate familiarity of the experience.

Emotion versus Intellect

There are many persons, both scholars and others, who believe that the
essence of religion, the common factor in all religions, is some sort of
emotional experience. In one way or another they minimize the intellectual
content. Although Hocking speaks of a search for righteousness, and
righteousness no doubt is something other than emotion, Hocking's stress
falls on the passionateness of the search, rather than on the contents of
righteousness. He does not make an outright denial that there are
intellectual factors in religion, but he asserts that no theoretical proposition
is true apart from feeling. This seems to imply that even the truth of
mathematics depends on passion. Perhaps he would not say that all passion
is religious or commendable, but passion is so much the medium of religion
that whatever is of passion "tends to be" religious. King also emphasizes
the emotional nature of religion and disparages the intellectual. In his
Foreword he refers to "the bare bones of the intellectual statements of
religious dogma" as opposed to "the vital phenomena of breathing and
moving religions themselves."

Or, consider a little more at length the views of another well-known
scholar who places the emphasis on emotion. James Bissett Pratt, in The
Religious Consciousness, aware of the difficulties in framing a definition,
admits that in many respects his own definition is probably as bad as any

other; but he holds that one word in it hits the mark pretty accurately.
Religion, he says, is a serious attitude toward those powers which people
believe control their destinies. It is the word attitude which he stresses,
and by which he plays down the intellect. In his study of conversion he
states that "the essential thing about conversion is the unification of
character," and that this is "the really important and the only essential part
of it..." (123). This involves will, emotion, and thought, but it is primarily
"moral." "Nor is the intellectual side of the process to be neglected, though
it is frankly the least noticeable of the three. In most cases it seems to
play but a negative part."

Preconceived Notions

At the risk of anticipating too much of the later argument, it might be
best even at this point to question whether all unification of purpose or
character is religious. As one example of conversion, Pratt chooses the
experience of a certain Ardigo who renounced the Roman Catholic
priesthood to become a positivistic scientist. Now, this is no doubt a
conversion of a sort; but is it a religious conversion? Of course the answer
to this question depends on one's definition of religion. Pratt defends his
choice of examples on the ground that he has not permitted preconceived
notions derived from Christian theology to influence him. Presumably to
choose as examples of conversion only those instances which accord with
Christian theology would be to forfeit the claim to scientific objectivity. At
the same time, although Pratt may not have selected his material from the
standpoint of any one of the well-known world religions, he nonetheless has
made his selection on the basis of other preconceived principles, which can
be thought of as his private religion. From a logical standpoint, it is equal
whether one's assumptions are philosophical or theological, Christian or not.
If it is reprehensible to operate on Christian presuppositions, is it any less
so on other presuppositions? The only difference would seem to be that the
writer with Christian principles is probably more aware of the fact, while
the scientific writer sometimes claims that he has no preconceived notions
at all. In other words, Pratt - attempting to avoid the bias of a Christian
view of conversion - does not seem to be aware of his own bias in
assuming Ardigo's conversion was a religious conversion and that the
essence of religion is the unification of character.

John Bunyan and Jonathan Edwards

Pratt's interest in conversion further reveals the importance he assigns
to emotion. In addition to the doubtful case of Ardigo, he relates the more
obviously religious experiences of David Brainerd and John Bunyan. In these
two instances the process was essentially the same. When they began to
think of the condition of their souls, their previous neutral state of mind
gave way to increasing depression. They felt themselves entirely helpless.
Desirous of salvation, they were convicted of sin and could not rid
themselves of temptations. The impossibility of recommending themselves
to God by their unaided human efforts increased their despair. Then
suddenly there came a great peace of mind. And, concludes Pratt, "the
whole drama was one of feeling, and all that was accomplished was the
substitution of one feeling for another" (147). Feeling is further elevated in
the following chapter by a serious misinterpretation of Protestant theology.
From the thesis that man by his own efforts cannot satisfy God's
requirements, Pratt draws the erroneous conclusion that "the attention of
everyone desiring salvation - since it was vain to center it on thought or
deed or will - was inevitably fixed on feeling. Feeling indeed could help -
the feeling of one's own devilishness and despair - and nothing else could"
(149). With this interpretation of the situation Pratt disparages Bunyan's
conversion.

To straighten out Pratt's misunderstandings of Protestant theology would
complicate the discussion too greatly. One point that lies on the surface is
enough to mention. Since the Protestant thesis is that man by his own
efforts cannot satisfy God's requirements, it would follow that feeling and
emotion could be of no more help than thought or deed or will. Thus the
need of gracious divine help would of itself no more require attention to
feelings than to thoughts and deeds. However, rather than to correct Pratt's
views of evangelical religion, it is more to the point to see how he uses his
interpretation to disparage Bunyan's conversion. He complains that Bunyan
gained no new insight through his experience; no change of character or will
had been wrought; no new unification of purpose had been achieved. Now,
this complaint involves Pratt in a curious inconsistency. If no change of will
or character had been wrought, Pratt should not have included this
experience in a list of conversions, for he had previously said that "the
essential thing about conversion is the unification of character" (123). As, in
the case of Ardigo, Pratt stumbled upon a conversion that was not religious
(at least in the popular sense of religious); so here he blunders and

contradicts himself by selecting an experience that is religious, but on his
own showing is not a conversion. The confusion is evidence of a poor
method.

Furthermore, Pratt is not justified in his disparagement of Bunyan's
emotions, even if they do not constitute a conversion. From a psychological
point of view, a point of view that stresses the description of phenomena
and boasts that theology has had no influence on its conclusions, a
sequence of emotions is as legitimate a subject of study as the unification
of character. In the descriptive method disparagement is out of place,
whether the subject be emotions or nuclear physics. Particularly for one
who thinks of religion as primarily an attitude or feeling, Bunyan ought to
be a most happy example of religious experience. But his contemptuous
style rather indicates that Pratt surreptitiously accords more value to the
intellectual contents of religion than he explicitly admits and that he
evaluates Bunyan from a position that does not lack theological bias.

Evidence of this one-sided procedure is again seen in his reference to
Jonathan Edwards. This great New England Puritan is also assimilated to the
general phrase that "feeling could indeed help.. .and nothing else could." Now,
it is true, as Pratt points out in his footnote (150), that Edwards said
"religion consists much in holy affection," and no one who reads Edwards'
explanation could disagree. But first, note that Edwards said much; he did
not say that religion or even conversion consists altogether in affections.
Then, second, the term affection in Edwards does not mean what Pratt
says it means. Pratt had said that "it was vain to center it on thought or
deed or will." But for Edwards the term affection includes the will, and in
fact has more to do with will than with pure feeling. Third, Edwards spends
most of his book in warning his readers not to trust their feelings. And
fourth, far from saying that nothing but feeling can be of help, far from
belittling intellectual content, Jonathan Edwards put great emphasis on
doctrine. Indeed, his stress on theology is more frequently the object of
secularistic displeasure than his actual or even his alleged approval of
emotions. It would seem, therefore, that these inaccuracies are the result
of a poor method and of a prior decision to define religion in terms of
emotion.

On the other hand, one who wishes to lay some or even great emphasis
on the intellectual side of religion need not conclude that it is worthless to
study the emotions. Jonathan Edwards studied them and on the basis of his

theology gave certain warnings against them. William James' intensely
interesting Varieties of Religious Experience proceeds on a different
theological basis. The New Testament itself, of course from its own point
of view, describes the very different emotional circumstances of a number
of conversions. But one's evaluation depends on one's theology. Doubtless
religion includes emotions; but it does not follow that will and intellect are
negative factors, unessential, least noticeable, and bare bones.

Does Description Explain?

In general, whatever the value or even the undisputed importance of such
psychological studies, one may wonder whether strictly psychological
descriptions are of much help in explaining religion or even in discovering
its nature. First, as to explanation. To be sure, the philosophy of Logical
Positivism holds that description is explanation. No statement of causality
is permitted; no statement of purpose is permitted; no possibility is
allowed of saying that a phenomenon must be as it is; not even an
evaluation is permitted; the only legitimate statement is that the
phenomenon is as it is observed. Since a critique of Logical Positivism
cannot be undertaken here, it must suffice to point out that the Logical
Positivists constantly violate their prescription. Besides that, the
identification of description and explanation is tantamount to denying
explanation. No doubt these facts are as they are described: A golf ball
rises and falls; a painting or a sonata is pleasing to me; Congress enacts a
new law. But even more than the description of the event, we want an
explanation of it. Why did this event occur? Under what generalization can
it be subsumed? What was its purpose and what will be its effects? And
should we, if possible, try to repeat it or to prevent its recurrence? The
Logical Positivists go beyond their own principles when they limit
explanation to description, for the limitation itself is not a description of
anything observable other than their own conduct. Admittedly, description
provides some elements that contribute to an understanding; at least
description provides material to be explained. But it is prima facie
unreasonable to confuse the two.

Now, if understanding goes beyond the range of description, should we
explain religion as the opiate of the people? Or should we be a little less
radical and explain it as the result of parental compulsion and social
pressure? Or, again, is the cause of religion either some innate aesthetic

response to the sublime or an abject fear of the unknown? Or, finally, does
an adequate explanation transcend these factors and demand God as the
cause? No psychological description can give any one of these answers nor
choose from among them.

Does Description Discover?

Just above it was questioned whether the psychological method could
explain religion or even discover its nature. There are several reasons why
psychology cannot discover what religion is. One reason, but not the
deepest or most independent, is that the descriptive accounts of emotions
are concerned only with surface phenomena. As the following considerations
will show, these descriptions do not grasp what is essentially religious.
That the same emotions are found in different religions would not disturb
but would rather be welcomed by a writer like Hocking, who insists on the
unity of all religion and is not interested in distinguishing one religion from
another; that there are different emotions found in the same religion might
merely result in increasing the difficulty of finding the one complex
emotional state by which religion is to be defined; but what is fatal to this
method of procedure is the fact that these emotions are found in
experiences that are not usually regarded as religious at all. For example,
love is currently emphasized by some religious writers as the religious
emotion par excellence. It has been regarded as the sum and substance,
the inner nature and deepest spring of true religion, and the essence of God
himself. But when left undefined, the emotion of love is hardly restricted to
religious situations. So far as the emotion per se is concerned, the
psychological description would be the same, no matter what the causes,
the object, the circumstances, or the value might be. Some love is quite
human; some is irreligious or even unholy. Yet, if religious love is to be
defined so as to exclude the unwanted examples, the procedure becomes
logically circular. Love is first used to define religion and then an
independent concept of religion is used to differentiate among loves. Then
again, not only is it impossible to confine a given emotion like love (or a
complex of emotions) to religious experience, it is equally impossible to
confine religious experience to a given emotion. The emotion of anger is
usually thought of as an anti-religious emotion, but Jesus' anger (Mark 3:5)
was pre-eminently religious. Such considerations as these show that no
purely psychological description of experiences, no emotion, no particular

state of the affective consciousness, nor any combination of them, can be
singled out as the uniform and definitive element in religion. There can be a
sequence of a calm mind, then depression, with elation following - as Pratt
notices in the case of John Bunyan; but the same sequence occurs regularly
on election night in the case of politicians also. There is nothing
distinctively religious about emotions.

Description and Presupposition
The keener writers recognize the deficiencies of purely psychological
description. Grensted says openly,

Ultimate questions about the real existence of the constituents of
our experience, in their own right and apart from their setting in that
experience, cannot be decided or even discussed by psychological
methods.... Psychology cannot even choose its own objectives, which
are selected by the psychologists on the basis of values of which
psychology can give no complete account.[3]

Nonetheless, there are a few, even though they are not professedly
Logical Positivists, who write as if psychological description answers all
questions. Yet it will be found that their volumes, no less than the works of
the better authors, contain many presuppositions and judgments of value
that cannot be obtained by observation. At the very beginning, though these
writers do not recognize it, a normative or non-descriptive principle is
needed for the selection of what to describe. It is very plausible to argue
that no one should philosophize about religion before he describes the
phenomena which call for explanation. The facts, so it is said, must
precede the theory. But the trouble is that a descriptive procedure can
never isolate what must be described. A theory must precede the choice of
facts. Pure description could never decide to place the emphasis on emotion
rather than on intellection. According to the vague popular connotation of
the term, religion is a most complex phenomenon. Some religious services
are quite emotional and the people shout and sing, stomp on the floor, wave
their arms, and act in a most undignified manner. Other people, like the
Presbyterians and Puritans, used to sit quietly trying to understand a two-
hour doctrinal sermon. There are groups also, both within and without the
sphere of Christendom, who limit themselves almost entirely to an
elaborate ritual. And still others equate religion with social service.

Therefore only a non-observational judgment of value could motivate the
assertion that the intellectual tenets of a religion are not worth
investigating. And only the same a priori judgment could select which part
of the complex phenomenon to describe.

Each author therefore decides what he thinks is important and significant,
whether it be ritual, dogma, or emotion. Such a decision cannot be avoided,
but it should not be hidden. It should be made consciously. It should not be
put forward as an objective, descriptive discovery. The most deceiving and
the most deceived author is the one who thinks he is simply describing
what is there. The there itself cannot be selected without presuppositions.
If a given emotion or some other affective state of consciousness, however
complicated, is selected as the essence of religion, the implication is that
another state is not religious. Thus religion is sharply separated from sport
or politics or other human activities considered non-religious. This is the
psychological counterpart of the common distinction between Sunday
religion and weekday practice. Undoubtedly there are persons who have a
Sunday religion for public display, if indeed it can be called their religion.
Similarly there may be persons whose professed religion is some isolated
emotion. But could there not be others whose religion permeates all their
activities? For them, politics, prayer, and procreation are all religious duties.
Is it possible to bring these two types of religion under one description? By
what right is the latter ruled out when the attempt at isolation is made?
Obviously, therefore, the psychologist must have a philosophy of religion of
his own which controls his psychology of religion, and it is this deeper
material which the present chapter believes to be the more significant.

Integration of Personality

To this point the discussion has emphasized the view that emotion is the
essence of religion. However, this restriction does not do justice to the
psychological method nor to the general exclusion of intellectual definitions.
The explanation of religion as a non-rational experience allows of another
possibility - a possibility that was evident in the material from Pratt, but
which has not yet been examined. Pratt spoke about the unification of
character and used the secular conversion of Ardigo as an example. This is
a theme popular with the modern humanists. Confining religion to one
emotion, such as Friedrich Schleiermacher's feeling of dependence, they
say, is too narrow a view; and though religious experience may sometimes

be characterized by this feeling, other equally religious experience may not.
A sense of dependence is not essential to religion. The humanists generally
therefore try to locate religion in the more universal needs of man - not
the non-religious needs of food and shelter, but in particular the need of
integrating one's scattered and conflicting impulses, emotions, and desires.
This means that religion is the process of achieving a unified, coherent, and
effective personality. The consciousness of sin, as the Christians call it, is
the consciousness of failure to achieve this unified self, and redemption is
the subsequent success. But success is not dependent on Christian ideas.
This was the mistake of Protestant Liberalism, commonly called
Modernism. Rejecting traditional theology, this religious movement still
sought the solution of life's problems within a Christian framework. But
this restriction is inconsistent with the substitution of religious experience
for an authoritative book. Humanism, consistently empirical, insists that
integration of character is often obtained by other methods. If we should
examine all the methods of successful integration, it will be clear that
Christianity is not unique or even superior. The main goods are the pursuit
of truth, the creation of beauty, and the realization of love and friendship.
Whatever methods are used to attain these goods may be equally called
religious, if one wishes to speak of religion.

There are two chief difficulties in this humanistic thesis. The first is the
establishment of truth, beauty, and friendship as goods. Nietzsche denied
that truth is always good. Can humanism, especially a tentative and
relativistic humanism, defend itself against Friedrich Nietzsche's
arguments? Perhaps the good is even less to be found in beauty and
friendship. Is it possible then on humanistic presuppositions to justify these
preferences or indeed to show that any definite line of conduct is good or
evil? This question, since it raises the general problem of ethics, will be
examined in a later chapter. The point here simply is that it is a difficult
question. It is so difficult that sometimes the humanists shy away from it
and embrace another difficulty. All the more do they shy away because the
selection of particular goods (such as truth and beauty) and the stress laid
by the humanists on society, on cooperation, on collectivism - leading them
at times to speak even of reverence for the social good - is inconsistent
with their view of religion.

If personal integration is the essence of religion, if - as one of their
number says - the empirical method cannot demonstrate that the non-

Christian solution is inferior to the Christian, if therefore true religion is
just wholehearted absorption in whatever envisioned greatness empirically
brings integrity of selfhood (and the humanists use all these phrases), then
it follows that the integration of purposes, emotions, and sentiments
achieved by Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin cannot by any empirical method
be judged inferior to any other. These two dictators could say with as much
truth as the Apostle Paul, "This one thing I do." All three men were
characterized by complete unity of mind. The examples of misers and
hermits who also have achieved great integration of emotions and
sentiments are only slightly less embarrassing to this view of religion.

The disadvantage of this attempt to define religion should now be clear.
The definition is so broad and vague that it covers an unmanageable variety
of experience. The Hindu mystic, the Apostle Paul, the dictator, and the
miser are equally perfect examples of religion. But while they are
undoubtedly equally perfect examples of integral personality, the types of
personality are so incompatible with each other that if one is called good,
another must be called evil. No one, not even a humanist, would admit that
he has no preference among these manners of living. And in this case, one
cannot say tout court that integration of personality is good. This
conclusion is an essential point in the message of a Christian evangelist.
Many of the people to whom he preaches are integrated personalities: That
is just what is the matter with them. Their desires and interests are
thoroughly harmonized into a naturalistic system of values. They are
altogether satisfied with themselves. No sense of guilt disturbs their
equanimity. The Christian message must destroy this integration; and even
if the message does not succeed in providing them with as perfectly
harmonized a substitute, the semi-integration so produced is better than
the previous complete integration.

The psychological method therefore fails to discover, to define, and to
explain religion; and at the same time it fails to justify its claim to
scientific impartiality. It is not by pure description that psychology
overemphasizes emotion: This is a normative judgment. And it is a
judgment which precludes distinguishing between religion and other
emotional experiences like politics. The controlling influence of non-
descriptive, philosophical presuppositions is also revealed by the
disparagement of certain types of conversion. Disparagement is obviously
evaluative. If, now, these presuppositions are made definite, and specific

values are elevated above others, the general problem of ethics is
inescapable. But if specific values are left vague and every type of
integration is allowed, the general problem of ethics is evaded because
incompatible types of life are put on the same level. Since this method
results in these confusions, since the terms are left without definite
meaning, it seems therefore that some other method is imperative.

The Comparative Method

The ideal of classifying religions as the members of the Lily Family are
classified in botany is too attractive to be discarded because of the failure
of one attempt. Another method of approaching the problem is the method
of comparative religions. If similar emotions blossom in different religions,
and divergent emotions within one religion, and all of them without benefit
of any religion, perhaps the nature of religion is to be found in its
intellectual aspect. Surely the systematic exclusion of the "bare bones" of
intellectual content is an extreme position. A study of the beliefs or
theology of a religion is indispensable to an understanding of it. Only by
grasping the doctrinal or intellectual system of each faith can one avoid
vague and misleading abstractions. And in spite of the first impression of
incompatible differences among religions, must there not be some basic
similarities? Otherwise, why should they all be called religions?

Is God Essential to Religion?

At first sight it would seem that there is a greater variety of beliefs than
of emotions, and that the nature of religion can never reside in any
theological formulation; but the hope of comparative studies is of course to
find in this welter of beliefs some common denominator, some minimal
consensus, some general agreement. No doubt Mohammedanism and
Christianity have different conceptions of God, but they both believe in
some sort of deity. Perhaps then this is the common element and essential
nature of all religion.[4]

Karl L. Stolz in The Psychology of Religious Living argues that humanism
is not a religion because it "invests the word 'religion' with a connotation
that is absolutely foreign to it.... A godless religion is a contradiction in
terms" (75-76). For the moment let us grant that Stolz and King are right in
denying that a religion can be godless. We are now confronted with the
philosophy of Spinoza and with the superstitions of savage tribes. Did

Spinoza have a religion? Did Spinoza have a God? Some people have called
him an atheist; and if this is the truth, he could not have had a religion in
Stolz's sense of the word. But others have called him a Gottbetrunkener
Mensch - a God-intoxicated man. He spoke frequently of God, of Deus sive
Natura. Therefore he must have been very religious. Unfortunately, however,
if God and nature are identified, and if Spinoza's God is the universe itself,
can it be said that he believed in God? Isn't God something other than the
universe? What is meant by the term God? Or, to turn from the
complicated philosophy of Spinoza to the superstitions of uncivilized
peoples, clearly whatever god the Inca religion acknowledged or whatever
gods are worshipped in the various animistic cults, they are not the God of
Christianity. If the term God is so broadened as to include the usage of
both Spinoza and the animists, the term and the definition of religion in
which it is used become meaningless. Therefore, if religion is to be defined
in terms of belief, perhaps it must be a belief in spirits, or merely in
immortality, or some other widespread belief that examination will show to
be the uniform ingredient of every religion.

Yet this expedient of substituting the more inclusive term spirit for the
more definite term God faces exactly the same difficulties. Spirit would
have to be defined, and one would have to question whether Spinoza's sub
specie aeternitatis could properly be included under the notion of
immortality. But beyond these detailed difficulties, there are decisive
reasons why the method itself, the very search for a common element, is
unsatisfactory.

The Hunting of the Snark

The method is unsatisfactory because it requires at the outset the
knowledge it aims to obtain at the end. In order to discover the common
element in all religions, it would first be necessary to distinguish religions
from all non-religious phenomena. If there were an authoritative list of
religions, a student could begin to examine them for a common element.
But before the common element is known, how could an authoritative list
be compiled? If Lewis Carroll tells Alice to examine all snarks and find the
common nature of the snark, Alice (at least in her waking moments) would
not know whether all the objects before her were snarks, or even whether
any of them were. Now, we are not in a much better position than Alice
would be. In our attempt to find the common nature of religion, we believe

we are safe in assuming that Christianity and Mohammedanism are
religions. But is Hinayana Buddhism a religion? If it is, then a belief in God
is not essential to religion; but if a belief in God is essential, then this form
of Buddhism is not a religion. Should we examine Buddhism or not? Should
we include Buddhism on our list? To answer this question, one would first
have to know the essential nature of religion, and yet this essential nature
is the still unknown object of search. It does not help to advise us to begin
with a smaller undisputed list. In the first place, there is no undisputed list
at all. Until religion is known, nothing can be placed on the list. And in the
second place, even if we had a small undisputed list, its common elements
could not be assumed to be the nature of religion, for with religion (even
more than with botany) the common element of a longer list is not likely to
be the common element first observed in the shorter list.

Nor is Buddhism the only or most embarrassing difficulty. Consider
Communism. Ostensibly it is the enemy of all religion, fundamentally and
vociferously anti-religious. Indeed, it is religiously anti-religious. Its anti-
religious zeal makes it a religion for its adherents. Should the student of
religion therefore list Communism as one of the world religions and search
for the common denominator of Communism, Christianity, and Buddhism?
How could the student decide what to do? Unless he first knows what
religion is, he will not know whether or not to examine Communism along
with the others in the hope of discovering the essential nature of religion.

In addition to this objection to the method, there is also an objection to
the usual conclusions it offers. Let it be assumed that Christianity,
Mohammedanism, and even Buddhism have been examined. Perhaps it is
claimed that the common element is a belief in an Original Being. The
phraseology in which such common elements are stated must be so general
and is interpreted by the various religions in such incompatible and
antagonistic ways that nothing common seems to remain but a name or
empty form of words. Original Being for Buddhism may be Nirvana, for
Christianity it is the Trinity; for Communism it is the atoms. But if the
Trinity is spirit and not matter, if the atoms are matter and not spirit, and
if Nirvana is neither, it is hard to see that there is any real element in
common. Original Being is just a name, a name of nothing, a sound in the
air.

Common Human Needs

If in answer to this criticism it be said that the three Original Beings
perform analogous functions in the three systems, and that this function is
a real common element, the reply will be a repetition of the argument. The
defense often speaks of the several religions fulfilling the needs of their
adherents, and thus the common factor in all religions is that they satisfy
certain needs. However, this answer will not do. It will not do because the
several religions do not agree on what a man needs. Of course there can be
verbal agreement that men need what is good for them, but when the
specific contents of the good or the need are spelled out, they will be found
to differ. Does man need the Heaven where Christ sits at the right hand of
the Father, or does man need Nirvana and personal extinction? No devout
Christian will admit that Nirvana (or atoms) can perform the same function
that the Trinity does; nor will the Communist or Buddhist admit that the
Trinity can do what Nirvana or atoms can do. Only the critics who have no
religion can so lightheartedly identify them. The adherents themselves do
not claim that their Original Being performs the same function that is
claimed for the Original Being of other religions. Function and need, like
Original Being, are nothing but empty names. There is therefore no element
in common among those phenomena that are popularly designated as
religious.

What then is religion? Colloquially the word is applied to
Mohammedanism, Buddhism, and Christianity. But because it is vague, it
can be applied to Communism also. Then the definitions of religion take on
the form of "what a man will live and die for." Such definitions are
completely without content and do not specify any definite subject of
scientific investigation.

Meaningful Words

Conversely, to have a definite and meaningful subject of study, the
colloquial and empty word must be relinquished, and some specific contents
must be selected. For example, the word God cannot be just any first
principle. The Deus sive Natura of Spinoza and the God of Abraham, Isaac,
and Jacob - as Pascal saw so well - are not the same thing. Nor can
salvation mean both Nirvana and Heaven. Therefore, if we wish to use the
word religion, we must define it particularly. We may wish to discuss
Mohammedanism, or we may wish to discuss Christianity. In this sense
there are religions, even though there is no religion. True, it may be difficult

to define Christianity or Mohammedanism, but it is not impossible. We may
have to alter the colloquial meaning somewhat in the interests of precision,
but the technical definition will not be so far from the common meaning as
to be absurd. At any rate, we need clear-cut concepts to avoid confusion.
When a term like God is stretched to include every first principle that
anybody has ever thought of - and every fetish, spirit, and superstition,
though these are not first principles - the term means nothing. As Hegel
insisted, every determination is a negation. Or, as Aristotle argued, a term
not only must mean something, it also must mean not-something. After
centuries of philosophic discussion it ought not to be necessary to defend
the indispensability of unequivocal language, but such is the chaos in
discussions in religion and such is the antipathy toward taking a particular
point of view that the disastrous results of vague generalities call for
emphasis. Let us therefore try to avoid confusion by being explicit. Most
words in the dictionary have three, four, or even five somewhat different
meanings; but if any word had a thousand meanings, or better, if any one
word could stand for every other word in the dictionary, nobody could tell
what it meant. If a word means everything, it means nothing. To have no
definite or limited meaning is to have no meaning at all.

Christianity

From here on the discussion will proceed from the viewpoint of
Christianity. The term Christianity is far more definite than religion.
Christianity has certain doctrines about a personal God, Christ the
Redeemer, Heaven and Hell, that cannot be confused with Communism,
Mohammedanism, or Spinozism. But if definiteness of intellectual content is
a virtue, why should one stop with just a little? Even the word Christianity
is used colloquially in various senses, and one is forced to admit that
professing Christians themselves often have inadequate ideas of what
Christianity is. Surely the images, medals, beads, and other paraphernalia of
Romanism is not the same religion as iconoclastic Puritanism.

Definition of Christianity

It is essential therefore to define Christianity more exactly by a specific
doctrinal system. Romanism is not what is meant. By Christianity we shall
mean, to use common names, what is called Calvinism. Or, to be most
specific, the definition of Christianity shall be the articles of the

Westminster Confession. With such a definite basis, it will no longer be
necessary to spin dizzily in a whirlpool of equivocal disputation. Now we
can know what we are talking about.

Since the cause of confusion in the philosophy of religion has been empty
and meaningless terminology, the hope now is that this avoidance of
ambiguity will contribute to the solution of several problems. The main
subjects - the relation of reason and faith, inspiration and revelation, the
basis of morality - will be considered in the following chapters. An attempt
will be made to show that, because of the basic doctrinal position, it is
possible to arrive at definite and consistent conclusions. There is no
hypocritical claim that the argument is without presuppositions. On the
contrary, only because the Westminster Confession is consciously adopted
can progress be expected. But before the main questions are put, certain
minor points prove to be satisfactory examples of the procedure and may
be used to conclude this introduction.

The Religions

First of all, a definite Christian standpoint can furnish the solution to the
paradox of the present chapter. How can there be religions, yet no religion?
If there is no common quality, emotional or intellectual, why are these
phenomena uniformly classified together and called religion? Why are there
also doubtful cases which sometimes seem to be religions and at other
times seem to be "merely" philosophy, or maybe politics? Of course, one
can simply appeal to the ignorance and stupidity of the populace and their
lack of clear thought. But there is something more. The Christian answer
begins with God's creating Adam in his own image and giving him a special
revelation. Here was the beginning of religion. With the fall, however, and
the resultant depravity, men became estranged from God and distorted both
the revelation and their reaction to it. As generations came and went, these
distortions diverged in many directions, giving rise to all forms of idolatry,
animal worship, fetishism, and witchcraft, not to mention the more blatant
rebellion of atheism. Thus there was no possibility of any intellectual
content remaining the same in all these developments. The religions of
today, therefore, are descendants of the one original religion; and because
of this common origin, they are colloquially called religion. If the divergence
is not so great as to obscure this origin, people do not scruple to call the
phenomena religions. Thus Islam is always called a religion because of its

inheritance from Judaism. When the divergence becomes greater, hesitation
and perplexity set in. This is seen where people wonder whether Buddhism
is a religion or merely a philosophy. And if it becomes extreme, people will
usually be quite sure that it is not religion. But logical classification fails
because the divergences have occurred through no logical principles.
Uninhibited inspiration has ridden off in all directions at once. Therefore the
only comprehensive result of attempting to define religion is now the
vaguest of meaningless statements.

Christian Conversion

A second example of the confusion engendered by vague notions has
already been seen in the discussion of conversion. But take another
example: Strickland [5] remarks that psychology should not attempt to say
what must be, but in keeping with scientific ideals should simply try to find
out what is. Applying this principle to conversion experiences, Strickland will
not prescribe any necessary or essential elements without which conversion
cannot occur, but rather he will collect data from accounts of conversions
and make whatever generalizations these data permit. As was explained
before, this is equivalent to hunting the snark before one knows what a
snark is. Therefore Strickland continues by pointing out that the cases he
has collected do not always exhibit sorrow for sin. This, he says, is evident
from accounts both of Christian experiences and of modern Hindu
experiences. In this line of argument Strickland assumes that the Hindu
experiences are cases of conversion. But what is the definition of
conversion? Acknowledgment of the Westminster Confession as one's
presupposition provides a definition and a solution of the problem. On this
basis conversion is a sinner's initial turning to the mercy of God in Christ
upon an apprehension of sin as contrary to the righteous law of God.
Although this is not a verbatim quotation from the Confession, it is a fairly
close approximation of the Puritan or Calvinistic meaning; and if this is
what is meant by conversion, it is clear that Hindu experiences cannot be
called experiences of conversion. It is only slightly less clear that many
experiences called Christian by careless thinkers are not conversions and
may not even be Christian at all. The confused state of mind of secular
psychologists who mix together all sorts of experiences, which at best have
only the most superficial similarity, renders their investigations almost
completely useless. One might as well announce as a great discovery that

coxcombs, the light from the planet Mars, and Communists are all red. If
psychologists are not supposed to legislate, nevertheless Christianity
should.

Sin

A third and final example of misapprehension resulting from poorly
defined terms, also arising in connection with the phenomena of conversion,
is the sense of sin. To return for the last time to Pratt, we note that he
hardly disguises his antipathy toward Bunyan's experience. The objection he
expresses is that Bunyan suffered under a sense of sin without
particularizing one or a few definite sins. Pratt gives the impression that
Bunyan would be more understandable if he had shown sorrow for some
obvious act of wrongdoing. Had he committed murder or theft, had he
maligned or injured his next-door neighbor, then he would have had
something to be sorry for, and his depression might have been somewhat
justified. But, says Pratt in disparagement, Bunyan suffered merely from a
sense of sin rather than from any definite acts. The reason why Pratt
passes from simple psychological description to open condemnation is not
hard to see. He has tacitly defined sin as an overt and voluntary act,
possibly restricting it to fairly serious acts, and he shows no understanding
of the view of sin as any falling short of God's standards. In his non-
Christian view peccadilloes possibly - and certainly inherited, involuntary
character - are not regarded as sin. Thus Pratt with his presuppositions can
neither appreciate nor even understand the Christian doctrine of human
depravity. He is trying to apply a secular notion of sin to the Christian
experience of Bunyan, and the result is no more relevant than it is
impartial.

Time and time again this is what happens. In the following chapters, with
respect to several important problems, it will be seen at great length how
the ambiguous and misplaced terms of the comparative method either
produce insoluble difficulties and paradoxes, lead to obvious absurdities, or
come illogically to conclusions inimical to Christianity. The non-Christian
arguments regularly assume the point in dispute before they start. The
questions are so framed as to exclude the Christian answer from the
beginning. Examining this procedure to see how it works, we shall also see
how unambiguous Christian concepts combine into a consistent system.

[1] William Ernest Hocking, The Coming World Civilization, 149. Italics are

blocking's.

[2] L. W. Grensted, The Psychology of Religion, 15.

[3] L. W. Grensted, The Psychology of Religion, 3, 5.

[4] See Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics, II 1, 449: "It is therefore unthinking
to set Islam and Christianity side by side, as if in monotheism at least
they have something in common. In reality, nothing separates them so
radically as the different ways in which they appear to say the same thing
- that there is only one God."

[5] Strickland, Psychology of Religious Experience, 113-115.

Faith and Reason

T hroughout the history of theology and philosophy - both in all the “war
between science and religion,” and as well in more devotional writing on the
relation between God and man - the antithesis of faith to reason has been a
frequent focus of discussion. But are faith and reason antithetical? In the sense in
which these terms were used by Augustine, they are virtually identical. In some
contexts, certainly, they are arranged in friendly cooperation. But of course they
have frequently been set in opposition.

The present discussion will be condensed under four easily remembered
subheadings. First, the Roman Catholic view will come under the heading of
"Reason and Faith." Second, "Reason without Faith" will summarize modern
philosophy from Descartes to Hegel. Third, the outbursts of irrationalism
that followed Hegel - including mysticism, Neo-orthodoxy, as well as
Nietzsche and Instrumentalism - will be taken as examples of "Faith
without Reason." And fourth, the only remaining combination is "Faith and
Reason."

Reason and Faith
Natural Theology

That true religion is preceded by or in some way founded on the activity
of natural reason is an idea that has been and continues to be widely
prevalent. The proper procedure is pictured as beginning with a proof of the
existence of God. When the unbeliever is convinced by an argument drawn
from nature, then he may next be shown the antecedent probability of a
special revelation, and finally the reasonableness of the Scriptures.

Not only has this natural theology in its medieval form been adopted as
the official position of Romanism, but many Protestant theologians also
accept it in some form or other. Not all, to be sure: A.H. Strong,
Systematic Theology (I, 71), says, "These arguments are probable, not
demonstrative." However, the Lutheran professor, Leander S. Keyser,
expounds the rational arguments for the existence of God in A System of
Natural Theism. His analysis and rejection of the ontological argument only
underscore his dependence on the others. A.E. Taylor is more ambiguous in
his ecclesiastical position, in his concept of God, and even in the precise
force he assigns to his argument; but he wrote a book, Does God Exist? to
which question his answer is certainly not negative. J. Oliver Buswell, Jr Y
Stuart Hackett, and in his own way Edward John Carnell ally themselves

with several Protestant writers who accept the theistic proofs. Prior to all
these men, however, and in a much more elaborate and systematic form
than any of them, Thomas Aquinas stated the natural arguments for God's
existence, on the basis of which he then erected a revealed theology.

The Thomistic view distinguishes between the process of arriving at
truth by man's unaided natural reason and the voluntary acceptance of truth
on the authority of divine revelation. The former is demonstrable
philosophy; the latter, accepted without demonstration, is the sphere of
faith. Faith and reason are, therefore, in one sense, incompatible. This
sense is of course not that in which humanists or materialists make them
mutually antagonistic. Rather, they are psychologically or subjectively
incompatible. If we have rationally demonstrated a proposition, it is
impossible for us to believe it on bare authority. We now have the proof,
and this leaves no room for faith. For example, a high-school teacher may
tell a pupil that plane triangles contain 180 degrees, and the pupil, if he has
some idea of what a degree is, may believe what his teacher says. But
after the pupil has understood the proof, he no longer believes the theorem
on the authority of the teacher; he knows the theorem because he has
proved it. Thomas and Aristotle would even allow an example from sensory
experience. An American might tell a European that Denver is west of St.
Louis; but if the European should come to America and visit the cities, he
would no longer believe on authority, he would know by experience. It is
thus impossible to know and to believe the same thing at the same time.
The principle holds equally for the proposition that God exists.

However, the subjective incompatibility of knowing and believing the
same thing at the same time does not prevent the same proposition from
being a part of one man's theology and another man's philosophy. God has
accommodated himself to human frailty, and because the Christian religion
is not to be restricted to scholars, God has supernaturally revealed some
truths which scholars can discover of themselves. Thus God has revealed
his existence so that peasants and morons may believe on him; and they
have faith. But Thomas no longer believes in God's existence; he knows
that God exists because he has proved it.

In another and more important sense, reason and faith are not
incompatible. They are complementary. There are many truths about God
that are indemonstrable. Yet, though they cannot be obtained naturally, they
are necessary for positive religion. Therefore, God has graciously revealed

them. For example, it can be demonstrated that God exists and that he is
the cause of the world, but the doctrine of the Trinity cannot be
demonstrated. Nevertheless, the doctrine of the Trinity is not incompatible
with reason; it does not contradict any proposition demonstrable in
philosophy. On the contrary, the doctrines of revelation complete what
philosophy had to leave unfinished. The two sets of truths are
complementary.

True faith and true reason cannot contradict one another. Natural
knowledge and the truths of faith both come from God - though in different
ways. But as they both come from God, they must be consistent. Because
of this it follows that faith is often an aid to reason. Whenever a thinker in
his speculative reasonings arrives at a proposition inconsistent with faith,
as Averroes did when he concluded against individual immortality, he should
accept the warning of revelation that he has made an error in his
argumentation. Faith is never a hindrance to reason; one should not picture
the believer as a prisoner who ought to be given his freedom; faith
restricts only from error. Thus reason and faith are in harmony.

In this Thomistic representation of affairs, the meaning of faith and
reason should be noted. These key terms are not used in the same sense
by all authors, and therefore the historical discussions have not always
concerned the same subject. Faith for Thomas Aquinas refers to truths
received by the supernatural impartation of information, but this is not
what F. FI. Jacobi and Friedrich Schleiermacher later meant by faith. Reason
in the present context means a process which begins with sensation,
passes through imagination, makes use of abstraction, and arrives at
conceptual knowledge. But in seventeenth-century philosophy reason was
sharply set apart from sensation. Reason then meant logic alone. Because
of such variation in usage, caution is necessary. One author's strictures on
faith may indeed apply to one meaning of faith, while at the same time
they may be entirely irrelevant to another. Failure to observe this - not only
by the readers, but more especially by the authors - has been a source of
endless confusion.

Before examining the cosmological argument itself to determine whether
or not reason can fulfill Aquinas' expectations, it will be best to consider
some objections to the general program as outlined. Edwin A. Burtt in his
Types of Religious Philosophy seems to approve of the following criticism:
If man's reason is naturally incompetent to arrive at the doctrine of the

Trinity or at other truths of faith, it must be incompetent to prove God's
existence in the first place. Why should one truth be demonstrable and not
others? And further, even if God's existence and goodness are proved, it
does not follow that a supernatural revelation is needed. God could show his
goodness in other ways.

The Romanist, he says, faces this dilemma:

If man's reason is competent to tell that God's goodness implies the
provision of a supernatural revelation, it needs no such revelation, being
able to decide equally well what man's own attainment of good
requires; if it is incompetent to point the way to human salvation, it is
still more incompetent to conclude anything about infinite
providence.r 11

Now, there may be flaws, and serious flaws, in the Thomistic philosophy;
but Professor Burtt's criticism seems to miss the mark. It may seem
strange that a discussion which will arrive at a thoroughgoing rejection of
Thomism should pause to defend it against contemporary attacks. Yet not
only should one try to be fair, but even self-interest cautions against relying
on defective criticisms. And indeed it seems that Professor Burtt has
placed a burden on Thomism that it need not bear.

In the first place, it is not necessary to hold that God's goodness implies
a supernatural revelation. It is enough that God's goodness permits the
possibility of a revelation. Of course, God might show his goodness in other
ways, as Burtt contends, but this does not rationally exclude a special
revelation.

Then in the second place, even if God's goodness implied a special
revelation, it by no means follows that unaided reason could discover the
contents of that revelation. Granting unreservedly that from God's goodness
we could validly infer that there must be a revelation - granting, that is,
that we recognize the need of further information as to the method of
obtaining our ultimate felicity - there is still no reason to conclude that this
information is discoverable by our unaided efforts. Quite the contrary,
would it not be largely our own inability to discover God's requirements for
us that led us in the first place to conclude for the necessity of revelation?

Burtt's criticism relies wholly on the principle that if it is possible to
demonstrate any one proposition, it is possible to demonstrate all others.
This is implausible. There is nothing irrational or self-contradictory,

certainly nothing obviously self-contradictory, in maintaining the
demonstrability of some truths and the indemonstrability of others. Even
Hegel, who by the exigencies of his system should have made everything
demonstrable, admitted the existence of contingencies in nature. In Hegel's
construction this admission may indeed be a flaw. Absolute Idealism
presupposes that all knowledge is so interrelated that every part entails the
whole. All nature is supposed to be grasped through a dialectical
manifestation of concepts that is completely under our control. But
Thomism is not Hegelianism. If with Thomas the premises of
demonstration are to be sought in sensory experience, each man is limited
by the relatively narrow range of his own experience, and all mankind would
be limited by a universe of experience that does not include premises for
all truths. Without these premises we cannot possibly arrive at the desired
conclusions. Intricate epistemological considerations enter here that cannot
be discussed just now, but at least from a more ordinary point of view the
inability to demonstrate the events of history does not seem to invalidate
the proof of the theorems in geometry.

Burtt then makes the supposition that the Romanist, in answer to the
criticism that any rational competency makes revelation unnecessary,
would point to the Bible as being in fact a revelation. But, Burtt holds, this
is an inadequate reply to the criticism. "Acceptance of any supposed
revelation as an actual fact depends upon the prior conviction that there is
in the universe a God able and willing to supply it" (406, revised edition).
This assertion also is wide of the mark, but in one respect it better
describes the position than the earlier dilemma. The dilemma depended on
the point that an argument for God's existence would imply a revelation.
That is to say, Burtt first contended that a demonstration of God's
existence, if further continued, would also demonstrate the existence and
the contents of a revelation. This later remark merely insists that a
conviction of God's existence must precede the acceptance of a revelation.
Here it is not a question of God's existence implying a revelation, but it is
the more modest position that a revelation presupposes a God able and
willing to reveal himself. Obviously Thomas claims that he has
demonstrated the existence of such a God. Therefore, the next step is to
search through the world to discover whether or not an actual revelation
has occurred. And again, obviously, Thomas finds the Bible. Now, Burtt
asserts that this discovery is an inadequate reply to the criticism; but if

we accept the first part of Thomas' philosophy, it is not easy to see why
this step should be called inadequate.

However, there is still one further source of confusion. As a matter of
fact, acceptance of a revelation may not depend on any prior conviction of
the existence of God. To be sure, a revelation presupposes God; but the
acceptance of a revelation does not require a previous belief in God. A man
might accept the Bible and in that very act be for the first time convinced
of God's existence. That is, he might find God in the revelation. Indeed,
since not many people are competent to understand the proofs of God's
existence, and since many who are competent do not study the proofs, it
would seem that most people who accept revelation have not first
convinced themselves intellectually of the existence of God. They take both
the existence of God and the contents of the Bible equally on faith.

Logically, of course, the fact of a revelation presupposes that there is a
God. To this extent Burtt is obviously correct. But this is not a damaging
criticism, since Thomas would admit as much. It is entirely in accord with
the distinction made by Thomas, but rather ignored by Burtt, between the
order of reality and the order of knowing. In reality God comes first and
everything else comes later; but the human process of learning, according
to Thomas, starts with other things first and arrives later at God as a
conclusion. For these reasons, complicated though they may be, Burtt's
criticism of Thomas must be judged unsound.

Reflection on Burtt's criticism may suggest that the matters he
discusses are after all of secondary importance. The crux of the matter
lies in the demonstration itself. If the demonstration is valid, objections
automatically fail. But is the demonstration valid? Has Thomas actually
proved the existence of God? This is the important question.

The Cosmological Argument

On this argument hangs the fate of all natural, as opposed to revealed,
theology; and its force will decide whether the labors of centuries have
been worthwhile or whether they have been misdirected. Now, if the
cosmological argument (leaving the ontological argument out of
consideration) is invalid, either Christianity has no rational foundation, or a
meaning for reason must be found that is independent of Thomistic
philosophy. To point out the direction which this discussion will take, it may
be said that Thomas' argument will prove to be invalid, and his use of
reason indefensible; then an alternative meaning of reason will be proposed

which, in addition to any Thomistic reference, will also reveal the ambiguity
in modern humanistic charges that Christianity is irrational.

The cosmological argument for the existence of God, most fully
developed by Thomas Aquinas, is a fallacy. It is not possible to begin with
sensory experience and proceed by the formal laws of logic to God's
existence as a conclusion. The terms fallacy, formal laws of logic,
invalidity, demonstration, and so on refer to those rules of thought which
admit of no exception. They refer to necessary inference. Some of the
Protestant theologians describe valid reasoning as mathematical. For
example, David S. Clark wishes to "distinguish between proof and
mathematical demonstration." [2] By the term proof he means evidences,
such as are used in law courts. The reason that the term mathematical is
used with demonstration is that algebra and especially geometry consist of
necessary inferences. The demonstrations of geometry are clearly valid.
They are outstanding examples of correct thinking. If the premises be
admitted, the conclusions cannot be avoided. In a law court, a piece of
evidence - and often all the evidences together - do not necessitate the
decision. The use of the term mathematical, however, is unfortunate; for
the proof of geometrical theorems is no more valid than the non-
mathematical syllogism used for centuries in logic textbooks: All men are
mortal; Socrates is a man; therefore, Socrates is mortal. This, too, is a
necessary inference. Now Thomas Aquinas intended, and natural theology
demands, that the argument for God's existence should be a formally valid
demonstration. The conclusion must follow necessarily from the premises.
In this, I maintain, the argument fails.

The first reason it fails is too complicated to spell out here. As
summarized in the Summa Theologiae I, Q. 2, the cosmological argument
depends on an extensive philosophical background borrowed from Aristotle.
It includes a theory of motion which asserts that nothing can move itself.
This thesis rests on the concepts of potentiality and actuality. Thomas
defines motion as the reduction of potentiality to actuality. The cause of a
motion must be actually what the thing moved is potentially. And since
nothing can be both actual and potential in the same respect, it follows that
nothing can move itself. Unfortunately, the concepts of potentiality and
actuality remain undefined. Aristotle tried to explain them by an analogy. In
the context, motion is used in the explanation and then the concepts of
potentiality and actuality are used to define motion. The argument therefore

is circular. Behind this stands a mass of metaphysics and epistemology.
Such intricacies cannot be discussed here, but it should be noted that if any
essential syllogism in all the extensive argumentation is invalid, the whole
system and the proof of God's existence collapses.

A second reason for repudiating the cosmological argument can be better
pinpointed. In his attempt to conclude with a first Unmoved Mover, Thomas
argues that the series of things moved by other things in motion cannot
regress to infinity. The reason Thomas gives for denying that moving
causes can regress to infinity is that this view would rule out a First
Mover. But this reason that Thomas gives is essentially the conclusion he
wishes to prove. Of course, an infinite series of moving causes is
inconsistent with a first Unmoved Mover. But if the argument is designed
to demonstrate the Unmoved Mover, its existence cannot be used ahead of
time as one of the premises in the argument.

A third reason of a slightly different sort concerns the identity of the
Unmoved Mover. Suppose that all the syllogisms to this point were valid.
Suppose the existence of the Unmoved Mover had been demonstrated. Yet,
when Thomas adds, "this [First Mover] everyone understands to be God,"
we may demur. The argument taken at its full face value would prove the
existence merely of some cause of physical motion; one might even say
that it could prove the existence only of some physical cause of motion. To
avoid this, Aristotle goes to some trouble to prove that the Unmoved Mover
has no magnitude; but this is one of the most unsatisfactory parts of his
argument. At any rate, it is quite clear that the Unmoved Mover of the
proof has no qualities of transcendent personality. There is nothing
supernatural about this cause. In fact - if the argument is valid, and if this
Unmoved Mover explains the processes of nature - the God of Abraham,
Isaac, and Jacob is superfluous, and indeed impossible.

This is a point on which a great contemporary theologian commands
attention. Karl Barth, the founder of Neo-orthodoxy, in his Church
Dogmatics II, 1, 79ff., gives some of his reasons for rejecting the Roman
Catholic viewpoint. In contrast to the decision of the Vatican Council, April
24, 1870, that God, who is the beginning and end of all things, can certainly
be known from the phenomena of created nature by the natural light of
human reason, Barth declares that God can be known only through God. The
main reason for this, says Barth, is that we are talking about the Christian
God, the Triune God. Admittedly the Vatican Council did not intend to speak

of another God, nor about only a part of this one God. But its method,
nevertheless, leads to a partitioning of God, and therefore to another god.
The decree uses the appellation "Our Lord," but the argument concerns only
"the beginning and end of all things." Now, says Barth, Christianity holds
that God is the beginning and end of all things, but it also holds that God is
the Redeemer; and if we take the unity of God seriously, we shall not be
able to separate the one from the other so as to make one knowledge of
God, as beginning and end of things, dependent on nature and another
knowledge of God as Lord and Redeemer dependent on revelation. No, says
Barth; the knowledge of God cannot be so partitioned. A knowledge of God
as the beginning and end cannot exist without a knowledge of God as
Redeemer; nor can we know God as Redeemer without knowing him as the
beginning and end of all things.

Is not the Deus Dominus et creator of this doctrine the construct of
human thinking - a thinking which in the last resort is not bound by the
basis and essence of the Church, by Jesus Christ, by the prophets and
apostles, but which relies upon itself? And although the knowability of
this construct can rightly be affirmed without revelation, do we not
have to ask what authority we have from the basis and essence of the
Church to call it "God'?

Perhaps it is impossible to follow Barth in every line of his objection here
quoted. Very likely Pascal put the matter more accurately in his paragraphs
contrasting the god of the philosophers with the God of Abraham, Isaac,
and Jacob. But in any case, the gap between the "Unmoved Mover" and the
living God is underscored.

Now, fourth and last, Thomas' argument is invalid because one of its
chief terms is used in two senses. Is it not obvious that a valid argument
requires its terms to bear the same meaning in the conclusion that they
started with in the premises? Unfortunately, Thomas very clearly argues in
other places that no term when applied to God can have precisely the same
meaning it has when applied to men or things. When we say that God is
wise, and that Solomon is wise, the term wise is not univocal. Not only the
term wise; the term exist also. In the proposition God exists, the term
exists has a meaning different from its use in the proposition man exists.
Thomas is very emphatic on this point. But if a term is not used univocally
throughout the syllogism, if a term does not bear precisely the same

meaning, the syllogism is invalid. The rules of logic have been violated.[3]
Those who today accept the cosmological argument will immediately
deny that its fortunes are indissolubly connected with its formulation by
Thomas. There are other ways of stating the argument, they claim, so as
to avoid any error that Thomas may have stumbled into. If this were true,
one would expect to find this unimpeachable formulation somewhere in the
published writings of its defenders. But the fact of the matter is that no
such formulation can be found. There are references to the cosmological
argument, there are discussions of it, and there are summaries of it; but
the full argument itself, with none of the steps omitted, seems never to
have been put into print.

David Hume and Charles Hodge
Therefore, those who defend a cosmological argument without stating
what it is must be challenged to answer several objections that would
seem to apply to any formulation. No doubt it is David Hume who, quite
apart from his strictures on the principle of causality, has best expressed
those objections. But since Hume was such a vicious antagonist of
Christianity, his name is anathema to believers, and they are irrationally
inclined to assume the falsity of all he said. The reverse may be closer to
the truth. It may be that his conclusions are validly drawn from his
premises; he may be perfectly correct in arguing that the existence of God
cannot be demonstrated on the basis of sensory experience. And if this is
so, Christians should thank him for pointing out a procedure that ends only
in embarrassment for them. Hence, Hume's arguments should be examined
without any prejudice that he could not possibly have been right.

Hume's rejection of natural theology depends chiefly on two points. The
first point is this: If it is valid to conclude the existence of a cause from
observation of its effects, it is nevertheless a violation of reason to ascribe
to that cause any properties beyond those necessary to account for the
effect. For example, if we see the score and hear the music of Beethoven,
and if all our knowledge of Beethoven depends on this observation, we may
perhaps conclude that there existed a man with a great degree of musical
ability; but it would be irrational to conclude that this musician was also
the star quarterback of Bonn University. Similarly the cosmological
argument - if otherwise sound - might give us a god sufficiently powerful
to be the cause of what we have observed, but no more. In spite of the

remark of some orthodox theologians that that is already a good deal, one
must reply that it is not the omnipotent Creator described in the Bible.

What is worse, the argument is not otherwise sound. William Paley's
famous analogy assumes that the universe is a machine like a watch, and
hence needs a divine watchmaker; but Hume questions the analogy. Is the
universe a machine? In many natural processes the universe resembles an
organism more than a machine. And if the universe is an organism in
spontaneous movement, the analogy of a divine watchmaker falls away.
The objection may be stated in still more general terms. Whether the
universe is a machine or a living organism, the cosmological argument
assumes that it is an effect. As an effect, it needs a cause. But how can it
be shown that the world is an effect? Of course there are causes and
effects within the universe. One part causes another part to move, just as
one wheel in a watch causes another wheel to move. Even vegetables have
causes and effects within them. The cosmological argument, however,
requires that the universe as a whole be an effect. But no observation of
parts of the universe can give this necessary assumption. To be quite clear
about it, no one has ever seen the universe as a whole.

Then next, even if it could be proved that the universe is an effect, there
is another and extremely serious difficulty, though it is but a particular
application of Hume's first point. The first point was the principle that no
characteristics can be ascribed to the cause beyond those necessary to
produce the effects by which alone the cause is known. Now, the observed
effects include many evils, disasters, tragedies, and what the Christian
calls sin. These can be listed in terrifying profusion. They have been so
listed and used against Christianity both by Hume and John Stuart Mill, as
well as by more cynical writers like Voltaire. These manifest evils, from
congenitally deformed infants to the torture chambers of Nazis and
Communists, prevent a conclusion that the cause of the world is good. The
cosmological argument totally fails to prove the existence of a just and
merciful God. To be sure, it allows - though it does not prove - the
existence of a good god, but only on the assumption that he is neither
omnipotent nor the cause of all that happens. But the cosmological
argument was supposed to deal with the universal cause. As a recourse for
Christian theism, therefore, the cosmological argument is worse than
useless. In fact, Christians can be pleased at its failure, for if it were valid,
it would prove a conclusion inconsistent with Christianity.

It is most unfortunate that a large section of conservative Protestantism
is unwilling to discuss the justice of God and its relation to the evils of the
world. There are devout individuals who seem to suppose that a discussion
of evil may put wrong ideas into young heads. Any attempt to explain evil,
they hold, is unsettling to the faith. In this they are disobedient to their
own standard, the Bible; and beyond this, their viewpoint implies that
Voltaire, Hume, Mill, and other opponents of Christianity are, and will
remain, unknown. These well-meaning individuals do not realize that Hume's
arguments have been public property since 1776; that millions of people
have rejected Christianity because of them; and to stop this loss it is a
Christian duty to meet them squarely. This, I believe, can be done. The
problem of evil is not insoluble. But the solution does not depend on
rehabilitating the cosmological argument.

Charles Hodge tried to do so. Hodge is one of the princes of historic
Christianity. As a theologian and exegete he has had few peers since he left
for glory. One might even venture to say that without reading his
Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, it is impossible to understand
Romans. Though such praise may be a bit of exaggeration, nevertheless his
high standing as a theologian must be admitted. But his philosophy is
deplorable, particularly his treatment of the cosmological argument.

In his Systematic Theology he attempts to prove that the universe is an
effect. He argues that since all its parts are dependent and movable, the
whole must be dependent, because "a whole cannot be essentially different
from its constituent parts .'T41 This is not true. For example, Rembrandt's
Night Watch is made up of various pigments and canvas, but the whole is
essentially different from its parts. The whole is essentially an aesthetic
object; the parts are not. If, instead of identifying the parts as pigments in
their tubes, we speak of the whole as made up of two-inch squares of
painted canvas, the same remark holds true. None of the two-inch squares
is an aesthetic object, but the whole is one of the greatest paintings in the
world. Or, for another example, we may select common table salt. It is
good to eat - on eggs at least; it is a preservative of pork and olives; it is
also, essentially, a chemical compound. But its constituent parts are
sodium and chlorine. These are essentially elements. They are also
essentially poisonous to the human system. The salt on pretzels tastes
good, but who would put a piece of sodium on his tongue? It simply is not
true that parts singly have the same characteristics as the wholes of which

they are components.

Hodge continues by saying that "an infinite number of effects cannot be
self-existent. If a chain of three links cannot support itself, much less can
a chain of a million links. Nothing multiplied by infinity is nothing still" Let
us took closely at what Hodge has said. The first of his three sentences,
viz., an infinite number of effects cannot be self-existent, is the conclusion
Hodge should prove. It offers no reason on its own behalf. The second,
which presumably is intended as a part of the proof, is an analogy. Hodge
supposes that the events of history and nature are like links in a chain, and
if a chain of three links cannot support itself, much less a chain of a
million links. Analogies, however, are never valid arguments, and this
analogy is particularly bad. In the first place, the picture of a chain whose
first link is held by a hook is a far from adequate picture of the
connections among the parts of nature. Second, whether it is three links, a
million links, or just one link, the fact that it cannot float by itself in the air
provides no rational basis for concluding that the universe is not self-
existent. Eternal self-existence is quite a different concept from that of a
link hanging on a hook. Finally, Hodge's third sentence, which seems to bear
the form of the main argument, does not clearly attach to the preceding.
He had just said that what is true of three links must be true of a million;
now he adds that nothing multiplied by infinity is nothing still. Aside from
its doubtful connection with the preceding, for he had not mentioned zero or
multiplication, the sentence is bad arithmetic. It is not true that zero
multiplied by infinity is zero, as one can easily see by realizing that the
fraction two over zero and the fraction three over zero are both infinity. Let
this much suffice as a horrible example of defending natural theology.

Let this suffice also to refute the claim that God's existence can be
demonstrated on the basis of observation of nature. The cosmological
argument is invalid, and a different type of philosophy is called for. One
possibility would be to hold to Christianity at the cost of being irrational.
Another possibility, and the one next to be discussed, is the attempt to
follow reason even if it should lead to a repudiation of Christianity and
revelation. Thus "Reason and Faith" gives way to the new rubric, "Reason
without Faith."

Reason without Faith

The medieval, that is, the Roman Catholic worldview lost its monopoly

over men's minds in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Two powerful
movements combined, or at least competed, to form modern civilization.
One of these, Protestantism, renounced Scholastic reason and based itself
on revelation; the other, the Renaissance, gave itself over wholly to reason
and would have nothing to do with faith. This latter alternative will be
discussed first, and its development may be conveniently arranged by
prefacing the account of the main philosophical theories with a few notes
on its form in popular culture.

Early Irreligion

The effect of "reason" on the broad aspects of culture - since it includes
the many-sided developments of the Renaissance and extends its influence
over several centuries, let us say to the French Revolution - is entirely too
large a subject for adequate treatment. Certain evidences of hostility to
Christianity are all that is pertinent and manageable here.

The fortunes of Christian faith had been at low ebb for centuries. A few
pious souls, like the Waldensians, Jan Hus, and John Wycliffe, barely kept
the Gospel alive, while the great mass of people were sunk in superstition.
Yet there probably would have been no surging revolt against the dead
forms of Christianity had it not been for the invention of the printing press
in the middle of the fifteenth century. It was the printing press that
brought to the people both the New Testament and the Greek and Roman
classics.

In Italy, where the classical literature first arrived as the Eastern Empire
crumbled under the pressure of the Turks, the time was ripe for an
intellectual revolution; for it was in Italy that the corruption of the papacy
was most evident. When therefore the glories of Greece and Rome became
known, when, that is, a civilization that had not been dominated by the idea
of God was brought to light, society quickly shed its hypocritical
Christianity and became openly pagan.

Of course, not all scholarship became pagan. The idea of God was not
universally discarded. Not only were the classical authors studied, but New
Testament scholarship also was advanced both by the cowardly Erasmus
and the courageous Reformers. But the Renaissance as distinct from the
Reformation was essentially pagan. And if this was true of the scholars,
particularly the Italian scholars (Pico della Mirandola, c.1494; Marsilius
Ficinus, c. 1499; and later, Telesius, c.1588; Giordano Bruno, c. 1600), it

was all the more true of Benvenuto Cellini, Niccolo Machiavelli, and the
Borgias. Artistic brilliance, intense conceit, political power, and dissolute
riches were not compatible with Christian doctrine and morality. It is not
necessary to maintain that the medieval ignorance of the classics was an
advantage, nor that the medieval art form was superior to the new
techniques. A knowledge of Homer and Virgil and the discovery of the laws
of perspective must not in themselves be considered inimical to faith; but
the content of art was changing, and the religious themes became less
Christian while the pagan themes became more frequent. In literature
Boccaccio, Rabelais, and the cut-throat Villon combine contempt for
ecclesiastical duplicity with a disinclination to personal morality.

Not all of this paganism, however, should be attributed to a philosophic
decision on the merits of faith and reason. Villon and Rabelais are simply
the ordinary results of human depravity. Indeed, extenuating circumstances
can be alleged for the revulsion from what went under the name of
Christianity. Nonetheless, all these men were representative components of
the new culture. They were the spokesmen and mirror of their time, both
influenced and influencing. But the type of more thoughtful writer, who,
without being a systematic philosopher, would in the long run exercise a
wider influence, may be found in Michel de Montaigne.

Strange to say, there is a notable contrast between Montaigne and the
others in the Renaissance tradition, both earlier and later. Renaissance
humanism was optimistic. It did not worry itself with the limits of man's
reason. In denying the need of God's grace, it assumed that human
resources were adequate for all our needs. The philosophic development,
yet to be discussed, and the burgeoning scientific advances anticipated no
checkmate. But Montaigne was not so sure.

In fact, Montaigne was not sure of anything. He was a skeptic. This is
first to be seen in his attitude toward morality and religion. Far from being
willing to die for any dogma or even to be inconvenienced by any scruple,
he advises us in his essay on "Custom" to conform ourselves to our time
and society. There are no universal moral principles binding upon all men;
and still less can anything be known about God, salvation, and a future life.
Wisdom therefore consists in having no personal conviction and in deferring
to common opinion so as to avoid trouble. When in Rome, do as the
Romans do.

The Romans, that is the Romanists, were at that time busily massacring

the Protestants in France. Well, the Calvinists had it coming to them. They
were opinionated people who violated accepted customs. Neither they nor
the Romanists had any reason to believe as they did, but as Romanism was
on the ground first, the Reformed people were clearly wrong in creating a
disturbance. Of course, the Romanists were wrong too in murdering the
Protestants, for no belief is worth killing or being killed for.

Montaigne's skepticism, however, goes deeper than these moral and
religious matters. Although the Renaissance was optimistic, although the
seventeenth century in France was to exalt reason, and although Montaigne
himself exercised some influence over the seventeenth-century writers, still
he expresses grave doubts as to the powers of reason:

If you say, "The weather is fine," and you are speaking the truth,
then the weather is fine. Is that not a way of expressing a certainty?
And yet it will deceive us. To see that this is so, follow up the
example. If you say, "I lie," and you are speaking the truth, then you
are still lying. The art, the reason, the force of the conclusion in this
case are the same as in the other. Nevertheless you find yourself
bemired. I observe the Pyrrhonian philosophers who cannot express
their general notion by any manner of speech, for they would have to
have a new language. Our language is entirely made up of affirmative
propositions, which are wholly hostile to them; so that, when they say,
"I doubt," we have them immediately at our mercy, if we force them
to admit that at least they assert and know this, that they doubt.

Although the last lines of this paragraph point the way to a dogmatism
immediately utilized by Rene Descartes, the main thrust is skeptical and as
such contrasts sharply with the views of the following three centuries. With
the sole exception of David Hume, the philosophic and scientific
development that formed modern European culture showed no anxiety
relative to the competency of the human mind. It is the thought of these
major philosophers to which most attention must be given. But first one
later continuation of the Renaissance, a continuation on the level of the
popular viewpoint, should receive brief mention. This is the so-called Age of
Reason, including both the French Enlightenment and English Deism.

The French Enlightenment will be condensed into a reference to Voltaire
and the Encyclopedists. It was not any great philosophical movement, but
thoroughly popular. Voltaire was as shallow as he was prolific. Anyone who

spent his time writing so many volumes and pamphlets cannot have spent
much time thinking, though anyone with more than average wit who has
been in and out of prison, honored, exiled, insulted, and flattered could no
doubt write a great deal. Yet Voltaire presents no consistent system of
thought. At one time he favors free will, at another determinism; there are
and there are not innate ideas; the world had a beginning and the world is
eternal. Or, again, the teleological argument for God's existence is valid, but
noses were made for spectacles and so we have spectacles. However,
consistency and profundity are not the prerequisites of popularity.

The French people, with Protestantism virtually extinguished, were
groaning under the autocratic power of the aristocracy and clergy. Voltaire
was their spokesman. From the beginning of his literary activity he made
war on the Christian religion as he knew it. With the passing of time his
attacks became more direct and more bold. Writing in God and Men and
The Bible Finally Explained, he does not attack the foibles and hypocrisies
of priests and believers, but rather the Gospel itself. His conclusion is that
whenever the Scriptures are neither apocryphal, fraudulent, nor altered, they
are immoral and absurd.

Unlike Diderot, however, and the majority of the Encyclopedists, Voltaire
was not an atheist. He believed that morality requires a finite god who
rewards and punishes. Yet the idea of reward and punishment conflicts with
the basic tenet of Deism that God does not intervene in human affairs; and
if these rewards and punishments are supposed to be distributed in a future
life, one must remember that Voltaire ridiculed the idea of soul by saying:
Either admit that a flea and a grub have a soul, or say that man is a
machine.

English Deism, from which Voltaire picked up many of his ideas, was a
relatively distinguishable phenomenon that can be located in the eighteenth
century. Naturally, its roots were in the past, the Renaissance, and even on
back to Celsus and Porphyry. In England Lord Herbert of Cherbury
(1583-1648) first collected the set of ideas later to be known as Deism; but
perhaps it is Charles Blount (1654-1693) who may be best identified as a
full-fledged Deist. After him come the main representatives of the
movement: John Toland (1670-1722), the Earl of Shaftesbury (1671-1713),
Anthony Collins (1676-1729), Thomas Woolston (1669-1731), Matthew Tindal
(1656-1733), and, not to mention lesser figures, Viscount Bolingbroke
(1672-1751).

In the main, Deistic writing attacks Christianity. The authenticity and
authority of the Bible are denied, and its accounts of miracles are
discredited. Anti-clericalism is not limited to the Romish variety, but the
Protestant clergy also are described as venal and greedy; in fact Deism
goes further, for Shaftesbury and most Deists were anti-Semitic also.
Frequently there is a tendency to depend on ridicule, and even the friends of
Deism acknowledge that Thomas Woolston's writing were coarse and ribald.

The generally negative strategy, the use of ridicule, and even the
centering of attention on particular details are conducive neither to positive
construction, philosophic profundity, nor to systematic and consistent
comprehensiveness. The best representative of Deism, from the point of
view of calm temperament and breadth of statement, is Matthew Tindal.

His work, Christianity as Old as Creation, synthesizes the main Deistic
themes. First of all, there is a natural religion discoverable by reason. No
special revelation is needed and nothing mysterious or supernatural is to be
accepted. Reason supports a belief in a god who rules the world rationally.
Being perfect and immutable, god does not violate the laws of nature by
any miracle. For the same reason, the religion he gave to man at creation
is perfect and needs no supplementation. The perfect rationality of god is
likewise incompatible with his choosing and favoring a particular people.
Special revelation would also be an instance of partiality. On the contrary,
all men have a sufficient means of knowing what god requires, for we could
not conceive of a just God requiring of all men the information he had given
to only a few. In any case the Bible is not a special revelation because it is
full of superstition and error. The Old Testament is immoral and Christ
himself is to be censured for making salvation to depend on beliefs of
which most men have never heard. All that god requires is that we should
promote the common good. Tindal also believed in a future life, though
some Deists did not.

In addition to its being the most comprehensive and worthy expression of
Deism, Tindal's book achieved another distinction, for it stimulated Bishop
Butler to produce that famous Analogy which so successfully put an end to
Deism.

Now, perhaps it is exaggeration to say that Butler's Analogy destroyed
Deism. The Deists themselves were beginning to feel the difficulty of
defending their negations in the face of orthodox replies and their
affirmations in the face of more radical arguments. Deism, in spite of its

profession of an ethical religion, was also accused - and with some show
of justice - of fostering widespread public immorality. On this point the
Methodist revivals changed popular opinion. Perhaps, too, political and
military events tended to crowd Deism off the front page.

Interesting as all this is, English Deism and the French Enlightenment are
essentially popular results of the Renaissance. These men, though they
wrote voluminously, were more followers than leaders in the formation of
European culture. Their arguments are sometimes inconsistent and their
terms ambiguous. In particular the term reason shifts its meaning, if not
always in a single author, yet certainly from one to another. Behind these
men stand the major philosophers. Therefore it is necessary to examine the
source of that faith in reason which holds that reason has no need of faith.

The direction in which the culture of an age develops is, humanly
speaking, chosen by a few exceptionally intelligent men. The popular
authors then pick up some of the main ideas, usually distorting and diluting
them considerably, and finally fifty years or a century later the general
viewpoint has seeped down to the whole populace.

The clearest ideas therefore on reason versus faith must be studied first
in the major philosophers: the Rationalists - Descartes, Spinoza, and
Leibniz; the Empiricists - Locke, Berkeley, and Hume; and finally Kant and
Hegel.

Rationalism

Rene Descartes might be introduced as a wise father who tut-tuts the
foolishness of his little boy, Montaigne. One can imagine him saying, Don't
be so pessimistic; I know that philosophy is too hard for you; let me do it.
Or, to put the matter in Descartes' own more dignified language: While
sensation and experience repeatedly deceive us and furnish us no
indubitable foundation for a firm superstructure, yet if only a single point be
found solid, then like Archimedes we can move the universe. Descartes
went to extreme lengths to give doubt the benefit of doubt. Because of
optical illusions, which are more frequent than one might first suppose, we
cannot begin by trusting sensation.

For that matter, we cannot be sure that we are awake. On a number of
occasions I have intended to take a nap but seem to have failed; then when
I remarked that I did not get to sleep, my wife would smile and tell me I
had been snoring loudly. Dreams prove the same point, for dreams are

often as vivid as supposedly waking experience; and while we are dreaming
we do not suppose it is a dream.

Finally, to push doubt to the limit, what if there be an omnipotent demon
whose chief delight it is to deceive us? He makes us believe that two and
two are four, when the answer is really five; and how he chuckles over our
confusion. To be sure, this sounds like an absurd supposition. How could
anyone take it seriously? But, on the other hand, how could one decide what
is absurd and what is not absurd, unless some assured knowledge provides
the basis for the decision? In the absence of all knowledge, when one
knows nothing at all, nothing at all can appear absurd. Therefore, for all we
know, i.e., nothing, there might exist an omnipotent deceiver.

Yet there is one thing that not even an omnipotent demon can do. He
cannot deceive us without allowing us to think. If we are deceived, we
must be thinking; and if we think, we exist. Here then is an indubitable
truth, a firm fulcrum by which we can move the universe of philosophy.

It is necessary to note just how Descartes has defeated the omnipotent
demon. Had he said, I walk, therefore I exist, he would have failed. I can
easily deny that I am walking without actually walking. It would be enough
to sit in a chair and say, I am not walking. But it is absolutely impossible
to deny I am thinking without thinking. Since doubting is a form of thought,
I cannot doubt that I think without thinking the doubt. I think, therefore, is
an indubitable truth.

How Descartes proceeded to build up his worldview from this point does
not concern us here. What is important is his method. One must not
suppose that the certainty of thought depends on any experienced vividness
of thinking. If certainty depended on vividness, then lightning and thunder
would serve to outwit the demon. Obviously they do not. The proof of the
cogito depends on logic alone. "I think" is a proposition such that if it is
denied, it is proved true. If I say, I think, it follows that I think; but just as
well if I say I do not think, it follows that I think. This is not a matter of
experience but of logic alone.

Because of this method Descartes and his followers are called
Rationalists. They depended on reason. But note, the reason on which they
depended is not in the first instance a reason that is antithetical to
revelation. This is not to say that a Rationalist, or Rationalism as a
system, is the bulwark of revelation. Spinoza in particular had no love for
the Bible. But the reason of Rationalism is in the first place a reason that

is antithetical to and exclusive of sensory experience. Here reason means
logic.

All knowledge, on this rationalistic theory, is to be deduced as the
theorems of geometry are deduced from their axioms. No appeal to
sensation is permitted. The consistent application of the laws of logic is
alone sufficient. Reason therefore bears the meaning of logical consistency.
This explains why the Rationalists adopted the ontological argument for
God's existence. They needed God's existence not only to rid themselves of
an omnipotent devil, but, more seriously, to prove the existence of a world.
Now, to fit their principles, the argument for God's existence had to be so
construed as to make a denial of his existence self-contradictory. As a
person who denies that the interior angles of a triangle equal two right
angles simply does not know what the concept of a triangle means, so
anyone who denies God's existence simply does not understand the term
God. Thus God's existence is proved by logic alone.

When this meaning of reason is coupled with the principle that all
knowledge can be deduced by reason alone, it follows that revelation is at
best unnecessary.

Spinoza, who applies the principle of Rationalism more consistently than
Descartes, draws out the inference explicitly:

The truth of an historical narrative, however assured, cannot give us
the knowledge of God nor consequently the love of God, for love of God
springs from knowledge of him, and knowledge of him should be
derived from general ideas, in themselves certain and known, so that
the truth of an historical narrative is very far from being a necessary
requisite for our attaining our highest good.[5]

The Christian reply to a rationalistic rejection of revelation should not
concern itself too much with archaeological evidence that the Bible is
historically accurate. Spinoza, to be sure, was an early member of the long
line of higher critics who delighted to find blunders in the Old Testament.
And no harm has come to Christianity through the archaeological
investigations that have discomfited the critics by showing that writing had
been invented in Moses' day, that the nation of Hittites actually existed, and
that all the other stupidities of Wellhausen's school are but the wishful
thinking of the Bible's enemies.

But Spinoza's argument was that an historical narrative, even if perfectly

accurate, is valueless in religion. A Christian reply therefore must be
directed against the epistemology that underlies Spinoza's statement. The
important question is not whether or not the Bible is true, but whether or
not all knowledge is deducible by reason, i.e., by logic alone.

Now, the history of philosophy, that is, the secular scholars themselves -
for it is not necessary to consult Christian writers - have convincingly
answered in the negative.

Kant did his best to explode the ontological argument; and since this
argument is Rationalism's only hope of making contact with real existence,
without which philosophy would be merely a game of words, such a
refutation, if sound, would annihilate Rationalism altogether. But even if the
ontological argument should be valid, no one has ever succeeded in deducing
the precise number of planets, or the actual species of japonica, from the
existence of God by logic alone. And if astronomy and botany must
progress apart from Rationalism, it is inconsistent to demand that religion
should be so confined.

Rationalism, therefore, in the seventeenth-century meaning of the term,
is a failure. So construed, reason without faith not only provides no religion,
it supports no knowledge of any kind. If this were the only possibility, the
Christian could offer the world a choice between faith in revelation or
abysmal ignorance.

Empiricism

The next attempt in European philosophy to build on "reason" without
faith was British Empiricism. This is the philosophy which the later Deists,
if not the earlier, came to adopt. But it must be noticed that the term
reason has taken on a very different meaning. Without much distortion it
may be said that reason now means sensation. That is, whereas
Rationalism attempted to base all knowledge on logic alone, Empiricism
depends on experience alone. The famous line from John Locke reads,
"whence has it [the mind] all the materials of reason and knowledge? To
this I answer in one word, from experience; in that all our knowledge is
founded, and from that it ultimately derives itself."

Locke's view of revelation may be a little too complicated, or possibly
too disguised, to describe accurately. Although he seems to have admitted
the fact of revelation, some interpreters judge it to be a grudging
admission. In one place he raises the question whether or not we can be
sure that anything is a revelation, and seems to suggest that probably we

cannot.

But however it may be with Locke himself - and, more pointedly -
however it may have been with the devout Bishop Berkeley, Hume showed
that Empiricism, consistently maintained, cannot provide room for
revelation. There is no need to balance the Christian Berkeley against the
secular Locke and to stress Locke's deficiencies to the advantage of
Berkeley's more acceptable attitude toward revelation. The important thing
is to discover what results from the principle that all knowledge is based
on experience, chiefly sensation.

According to Empiricism, knowledge begins with what Locke calls ideas,
notions, or phantasms; what Hume calls impressions; or what most people
today call sensations. By combining, transposing, augmenting, or diminishing
these sensory materials, we develop all, even our most abstruse,
knowledge. The most complicated of Einstein's relativity equations, though
this is not the example Hume used, can be resolved into memory images
that were copied from previous sensations.

Now, how far will experience take us? Do these inner sensations give any
knowledge of external bodies? Can we discover the causes of these
impressions? Berkeley had already showed that the sensations of red, hard,
bitter, etc., give no evidence in favor of the existence of an external
material world. Hume, following him, gives the example of a table. Suppose
we see a table. We have a sensation of a table. If we walk away from it
down a long hallway, what we see appears smaller than what we saw when
we were closer. An external table is supposed always to maintain the same
size. Therefore what we actually saw was not the alleged external table,
for what we actually saw changed in size. What we actually saw was an
image or phantasm in our own mind, and hence our sensations furnish us
with no evidence for the existence of an external world. Even if we should
suppose that our image had some external cause, we could not know that
the image resembles the cause, for we have seen nothing but images. In
fact, if the word image connotes a similarity to something external, we
have no reason to believe that our sensations are images.[6]

Hume, however, goes further than Berkeley in reducing knowledge to
experience. Locke had accounted for the idea of matter by abstraction, and
Berkeley had shown that experience provides no instance of an abstract
idea. Ideas of blue, red, and green we have in abundance; but the abstract
idea of a color that is neither blue, red, nor green - an idea of color that is

no color at all - simply does not exist. Similarly, "matter" does not exist; it
is merely the sound of our voice, nothing more than an empty word. But if
the abstract idea of material substance is nothing, it follows with the same
necessity that experience can give us no idea of spiritual substance. The
one is as abstract as the other. That is to say, a mind or soul does not
exist. Experience gives us ideas only. There are reds, greens, bitters,
sweets, roughs, smooths and their compounds - rivers, trees, and tables;
but there is neither matter nor spirit, for perception can never furnish
evidence for anything imperceptible. We ourselves are nothing but a
collection of sensory perceptions.

Next, if it is obvious that perception can furnish no evidence of any
imperceptible entity, it is only a little less obvious that perception can
furnish no evidence for what is unperceived.

If I offer a perceived letter as evidence that my unperceived friend is in
France, I am assuming that there is a necessary connection between the
letter and my absent friend. Were there no necessary connection, had my
friend not written the letter, were he not the cause and it the effect, then I
could not know that he was in France. All questions of history, therefore, in
fact, all alleged knowledge of facts beyond present sensation and the
records of our own memory, depend on the principle of causality.

An examination of experience, however, shows that a knowledge of cause
and effect is not to be had. We may have the sensation of red and a
moment later a bitter taste; or the sensation of a loud noise may be
followed by a sweet smell. Experience provides the succession of ideas; but
we never see, smell, taste, or hear a necessary connection. There is no
reason to believe that red causes a bitter taste or that a noise causes a
smell. Quite the contrary, no one can imagine how or why a color might
cause a taste. This remains true for compound ideas as well as for simple
ideas. The combination of white, a cubical shape, and a crystalline structure
that we call sugar may precede a sweet taste. But can anyone show a
necessary connection between the first set of ideas, singly or together, and
the sweet taste or the feeling of a full stomach after eating quite a bit of
it?

Experience accustoms us to expect certain sequences. They become so
familiar we take them for granted. We call them causes and effects. But in
it all we have no understanding of the sequence and no experience of any
necessary connection. A knowledge of history is therefore impossible.

Now, finally, if it is impossible to know the imperceptible by perception,
and if it is impossible to know the unperceived by perception, is it even
possible to know what we now see? Granted that there is no evidence in
experience of an unexperienced table whose size does not change, can we
have even the image of a table, composed as it is of sensations of color,
shape, and hardness?

Here is the difficulty. At any finite time, no matter how short, we
experience a multitude of sensations. We see dozens of colors, we may
hear two or three sounds, we could smell several odors, and even if we
have no tastes at the moment, we always have a number of tactual
sensations. From this manifold of sensations we select a few and combine
them to make the image of a table. But why is it that we combine the
color brown, a somewhat rectangular shape, and the sensation of hardness
to make a table, instead of selecting from our many sensations the color
pale green, the sound of C-sharp, and the smell of freshly baked bread to
combine them into the idea of a jobbleycluck?

Locke had tried to justify the connecting of certain ideas on the ground
that they were qualities inhering in the same material substance. But as
material substance does not exist (even if it did we could not know it until
after we had combined simple ideas into things and then done some
abstracting), this explanation is not available to Empiricism. Berkeley and
Hume give the impression that our selections for combinations depend on
the fact that the ideas selected occur at the same place and time. Time,
however, is unimportant, for at any time we are experiencing many ideas
that we do not combine into a table. Then, must an empiricist say that the
particular combination depends on the space in which the simple ideas are
perceived?

Whether this answer is satisfactory or not depends on the empirical
account of how we can recognize space.

Do we see space? Do we hear space? Do we smell space? Not only is
this impossible, but even when we see a single object in space, we cannot
see the distance between it and us. We judge distances by comparing
known objects. Since we have previously seen and touched a particular
table, and thus know its size at close range, we can judge how far away we
are when it appears half its previous size. Or, we can judge that a house
down the road is a mile away because on other occasions we have walked
the distance. Space and distance therefore are matters of judgment and

comparison, not of simple sensation.

But if space is learned by comparing houses and tables, we must first be
able to perceive the table before we can compare it with a house and learn
of space. That is to say, space is an idea of comparison. But if the idea of
space cannot be had until after we have compared tables and houses, we
cannot produce tables and houses by selecting simple ideas through the use
of space.

Empiricism therefore has blundered fatally. It has surreptitiously inserted
at the beginning of the learning process an idea of space which does not
exist until after the process has been well-nigh completed. Once again,
then, the attempt to found knowledge on "reason" as distinct from
revelation has failed. If this were the end of the story, the Christian could
offer the world a choice between faith in revelation or an abysmal
skepticism.

Immanuel Kant

Immanuel Kant, awakened, as he says, from his dogmatic slumbers by
David Hume, promptly set about to remedy Empiricism's defect. If all
knowledge is based on experience alone, then there can be no knowledge of
any necessary truth. At most, experience could reveal that such and such is
so, but not that it must be so. For example, sensation might tell us that
doors have two sides, but it cannot teach us that doors must have two
sides. Doors might, somewhere, someday, have only one side. No
experience can disprove this possibility. Similarly, Empiricism cannot
substantiate universal propositions. We might possibly know that all the
doors we have seen have two sides, but, without any reference to future
inventions, even for the past we cannot know that all doors have had two
sides. Or, again, every time we have added two and two, the answer has
been four; but so far as experience goes, we cannot say that two and two
are always four. Experience cannot tell us how much two and two are in
those instances we have not experienced. Briefly, without necessity and
universality - and these are inseparable - there can be neither mathematics
nor physics.

By one stroke, Kant is able to rehabilitate necessity and universality and
to account for the perception of individual objects like chairs and tables.
The mind of man at birth is not just a sheet of blank paper as Locke said it
was. It possesses characteristics, forms, or notions in its own right. Space

and time are two such forms. The knowledge of space and time does not
depend on experience; rather, the reverse is true: Experience depends on
our knowledge of space and time. These two forms make the perception of
things possible.

In colloquial discourse we speak of railroad tracks converging in the
distance. They do not really converge. The railroad tracks themselves do
not converge, but we see them converging. This perspective is our form of
seeing. The tracks in themselves exist independently of our seeing them,
but when they enter our vision they take the form of our perspective. Thus
we make them converge by looking at them.

This illustration of tracks in perspective must be extended to cover all
objects in space. The tracks stand for any object, such as a chair or a
table; and the perspective of the illustration stands for the spatial
characteristics of every visible object. Chairs and tables themselves, or
generally things in themselves, do not exist in space; it is we who see
them that way. Therefore, just as we know ahead of time, before
experience - or to use Kant's term, a priori - that all seen railroad tracks
must converge, always have, and always will converge, so on a more
profound level we know a priori that doors must have, always have had, and
always will have two sides. That is to say, the doors of experience, doors
as seen, must have two sides. But what doors in themselves are like -
doors not appearing in our perception, doors not conformed to our mind's a
priori form of space - we have not the least idea.

Knowledge, however, is not restricted to the bare perception of objects.
In addition to sensation there is thought. Thought combines sensations into
judgments. We may say, This door is thick, or, Some cats are black, or,
Every change must have a cause. In such judgments many perceptions are
summarized and joined together. Now, obviously, the things of experience
do not do the joining themselves. Framing judgments is something that is
done by thinking beings. Therefore the mind, far from being a passive
recipient of knowledge, is an active manufacturer of knowledge; as such it
has definite methods of procedure. It joins or unifies experiences in a
definite number of ways. These methods of unification are not learned from
experience; on the contrary, they make experience possible. If we did not
possess this equipment, we could no more begin to think than we could
begin to see objects without the a priori form of space. Since, therefore,
thinking or judging consists in arranging perceptions under concepts (this

visible kitty belongs to the species cat, or to the class of black objects), it
follows that meaningful experience is possible only on the basis of certain a
priori concepts or categories.

The identification of the categories is accomplished by noting that the
forms used in organizing experience are the forms of logic. Since all
knowledge consists of judgments, the forms of knowledge are the forms of
judgments, and the forms of judgment are the forms of logic. The
categories, therefore, are the basic concepts without which we could not
think at all. The categories are the ways in which the mind synthesizes the
diversities of experience. The categories produce judgments. Since, on
Kant's theory, there are twelve logical elements in the aggregate of
judgments, there are twelve categories. The concepts of unity and plurality
are categories. Without the concept of unity we could not think at all. A
more complicated form of judgment is implication. We say, since this is
true, that must be true; or we could say, that must be true because this is
true. Note the because. Implication therefore depends on the category of
causality. Causality therefore is a category, an a priori concept, a form of
knowledge which, instead of being learned from experience, must be known
prior to experience so as to make experience possible. Thus by making the
knowledge of causality prior to experience, Kant believes he has escaped
the skepticism of Hume. If he has really done so, then he has established
knowledge without an appeal to revelation, and reason without faith would
be successful.

However, it was no Christian trying to defend revelation that questioned
Kant's success. Christians are sometimes accused of being biased and of
forcing their arguments to foregone conclusions. Yet this is no more true of
Christians than it was of Kant or of anyone else. Kant knew that he wanted
to work out a theory of categories, and he made repeated attempts to
deduce them before he hit upon his final formulation. The conclusion was
decided upon before the argument was worked out. This is true of every
philosopher, although Christians are more often castigated for it than are
other writers. And those who do the castigating are more pointed examples
than those they deride. But anyway, as a matter of history, the failure of
Kant was not exposed by a Christian trying to defend revelation.

Certain basic defects in Kant's system are universally recognized. Kant
had explained his categories as the mind's methods of unifying experience.
Unity, plurality, causality, and the others were forms by which experience

could be put together. But if there were no sensory experience to put into
these forms, the categories would remain empty and would not of
themselves be knowledge. Furthermore, the categories have no further use
whatever. They can be applied to experience but cannot be applied beyond
experience. A concept without its sensory content is empty. Similarly
empty is the a priori notion of space. Unless sensations appear in space,
we can have no contact with reality. Knowledge requires the combination of
a priori forms and a posteriori experience. Either one without the other is
not knowledge.

This construction makes Kant's problem an impossible one. He sought
the preconditions of experience while denying that these conditions are
objects of experience. If our knowledge is always a combination of form
and content, we cannot know the form without the content. Yet Kant
professed to have deduced the categories.

This criticism can be expressed in other and perhaps clearer terms. Kant
had in effect argued that before we attempt to study physics and theology,
we must determine whether or not the mind is capable of investigating
physical things and God. But if this is so, can it not be maintained with
equal plausibility that before we attempt to study the limitations of the
mind, we must determine whether or not the mind is capable of
investigating its limitations? Therefore, Kant's Critique of Pure Reason
should have been preceded by a Critique of the Critique of Pure Reason, and
so on backward for quite a while.

Another standard objection to Kant, though perhaps it is simply the same
objection again in a different form, has to do with things-in-themselves. On
Kant's theory, things-in-themselves must stand behind things-as-they-
appear-to-us. It is assumed, to make use of the previous illustration, that
behind the converging railroad tracks, there are real tracks that do not
converge. These non-converging real tracks are presumably the cause of
the tracks that appear and converge. The convergence occurs only in
experience; the non-convergence does not occur in experience. But, very
unfortunately for Kant, categories cannot be used outside experience.
Causality is a relationship existing only between two objects of experience.
The category of causality cannot be applied to non-converging tracks. Or to
repeat the clever remark of F.H. Jacobi, "Without the thing-in-itself one
cannot get into Kant's system, and with it one cannot stay in."

These objections to Kant do not depend on the fact that he failed to

establish a theology. God cannot be the cause of the world because God is
not an object of sensation, and causes must be confined within sensory
experience. But this failure to arrive at a theology would not destroy Kant's
philosophy. The objections depend on the fact that Kant has failed to find a
basis for physics. He has failed to explain sensation. He has failed to give
an intelligible account of the relation of form to content. He has failed to
make knowledge possible. Therefore the question still remains whether
knowledge can be achieved apart from revelation.

Hegel and His Critics

There is one more, one magnificent, let us say, one final attempt in
secular philosophy to establish the claims of Reason spelled with a capital
R. Though the seventeenth century exhibited a Rationalism in a very
definite sense of that term, no one is more of a Rationalist, no one exalts
the powers of reason, more than G.W.F. Hegel.

To show, therefore, that the attempt - begun by the Renaissance - to
establish the possibility of knowledge apart from divine revelation is a
failure, it will be necessary, in the last place, to indicate the flaw in Hegel's
system. This is not easy. An exposition of Hegelianism would become
intolerably technical, and yet without it the locus of Hegel's inadequacy
could not be intelligibly indicated. To be sure, it is all but universally
admitted that Hegelianism cannot be successfully defended; and perhaps it
would be the part of wisdom, as it will be to a large measure the part of
necessity, to rely on this consensus and proceed. Nevertheless, something
of the line of argument ought to be given.

Kant, as has been shown, compounded knowledge of form and content.
The form is the contribution of the mind, while the content comes from an
independent, external thing-in-itself. Yet, since the categories do not apply
beyond sensation, the thing-in-itself remains unknowable; but if unknowable,
its existence and necessity could not be asserted. Hegel makes quite a
point of the absurdity of asserting an unknowable; then he tries to remove
the opposition between consciousness and its object by showing that on a
higher level they are both within consciousness itself. Nature, the given, the
contributions of sense, are one with mind or spirit. There is no ultimate
disparity. This unity, however, must be shown in detail. Hegel refuses to
rely on any mystic experience or ecstatic trance to gain the One; on the
contrary, he proposes a new logic by whose dialectical procedure the

required unity can be developed step-by-step.

Aristotelian logic, [7] in its insistence on clear-cut distinctions, is good so
far as it goes. A cat is not a dog, and a sense object is not the self: They
should not be confused. Unless thought marks one thing off against another,
there can be no thought. But thought not only distinguishes one thing from
another, it also relates and conjoins them. Both dog and cat are species of
mammals, and the recognition of one species makes use of the contrast
with the other. Without such relations it would be impossible to think; just
as impossible as it would be to think without distinctions. Every object
must be differentiated from every other object, but no object can be so
totally differentiated as to exclude the identity that transcends the
difference. The differences are expressions of unity.

Every definite thought excludes other thoughts, excludes especially its
opposite thought; yet every thought has a necessary relation to its opposite
or negative. It cannot be detached from its negative without losing its own
meaning. Its negative is a part of its meaning, and is therefore included
within it. To see that each opposite includes the other is to see that both
are included in a higher unity. This is true not only of cat and dog, but also
of consciousness and thing.[8]

For all of Kant's efforts, his theory of the self is not too great an
improvement over Hume's. Self-consciousness, he said, was not a concept
but a consciousness that accompanies all concepts. The ego remains
unknown in itself and is known only through the thoughts that are its
predicates. But this is as much as to say, concludes Hegel, that we cannot
see the Sun because we cannot throw the rays of a candle upon it. Kant
has declared intelligence itself to be unintelligible! He did so because he
presupposed that only abstract identity, without difference, is entirely
intelligible.

The old logic assumed that each object is an isolated identity, a pure this
and not that. Relations were regarded as external, as outside of the real
nature of things. On the contrary, it is essential that a dog be not-a-cat.
The meaning of every object is implicated in the meaning of every other.
Nothing is isolated or purely one. In particular, the isolationist procedure
stumbles at self-consciousness because in it true unity is essentially
complex. Mind and object, subject and substance, and the particular selves
form a unity. Nothing is outside or independent. Nature and man are
identical. Yet this identity is not abstract or empty. All the differences are

preserved. Unity and plurality are so blended that neither has meaning
without the other.

In Descartes, and surely in Locke, thinking was regarded as the activity
of an individual person. But if thinking is essentially and exclusively an
individual capacity, it seems impossible to avoid solipsism. There is no
escape from one's own mind. And in any case, whether there are many
minds or my own only, the objects of experience miraculously become real
time-and-time-again in separate, casual acts of perception. Kant thought he
had avoided solipsism, but he failed to give a satisfactory account of how
one object could appear to many persons. Undoubtedly he intended the
categories to be the same in all minds and to apply to a common world of
objects. But no purely individual experience could reveal a world common to
other centers of experience. Therefore, concludes Hegel, there must be a
universal mind in which all persons and objects participate.

To apply these principles in detail, to show precisely the unified
differences of the Absolute Mind, Hegel works out a system of categories.
Instead of Kant's twelve, Hegel has a hundred or more. These categories
are the concepts that apply to and constitute everything. The first, the
simplest, the most abstract, the emptiest is pure Being. Every object is a
being. Being contains everything - implicitly. The implicit must now be
made explicit by a dialectical process. Since everything is determined by its
opposite, Being cannot be thought apart from Non-being. When we have said
of an object that it is a being, the very universality and emptiness of Being
has left us saying nothing. We have not said it is green or heavy; we have
not determined it in any way. Being therefore is the equivalent of Nothing.
But since by this dialectical process of thought, Being has become Nothing,
the category of Becoming has emerged. Becoming is the synthesis of Being
and Nothing. For a thing both is and is not when it is becoming.

By such a dialectical procedure Hegel deduced a long list of categories.
The final category contained explicitly all that the first contained implicitly.

Undoubtedly Hegel was a genius, and in spite of his frequently cumberous
jargon there is a great deal of worthwhile profundity in his Phenomenology
and Logic. In particular he often puts his finger on the sorest spots of
previous systems, so that it may well be said that to understand Kant,
Descartes, or the ancient Stoics, one must first read Hegel. The accidents
of Prussian politics, to which someone might want to credit his immediate
popularity in Germany, cannot explain his long ascendancy in Great Britain

nor his vogue in the United States. Nevertheless, since World War I,
Hegelianism has become all but extinct; and in Germany it began to suffer
eclipse even in the middle of the nineteenth century. This reversal should
be taken as evidence of some philosophic flaw or flaws in Hegel's
construction, and where the trouble lies must be discovered.

One particular point of criticism was early singled out by Hegel's
immediate followers. If the universe is this system of categories, they
argued - if the real is the rational and the rational is the real - then clearly
all reality can be dialectically deduced, and every item must find its clear
place in the system. Hegel had made a point of preserving differences; he
did not favor empty abstractions nor the night of mysticism in which all
cows are black. To make good his claims, therefore, Hegel ought to deduce
some one individual cow, that very real black and white Holstein in the
pasture over yonder.

But this is precisely what Hegel did not and could not do. As Plato never
satisfactorily connected his Ideas with individual sense objects, so too, and
even all the more so, Hegel could not rationally deduce an individual object
from the Absolute. To be sure, Hegel was not unaware of this criticism.
When faced with it, he replied that he had dissolved the individual - the
this, the here and now, and the individual ego as well - in the very first
chapter of his Phenomenology; but whatever reality they have, he had
preserved in the dialectical process. This is of course in keeping with the
denial of an unknowable Ding-an-sich and the removal of that sharp
separation between the mental form and the sensory given which plagued
the post-Kantians.

Now, it seems impossible to defend the Ding-an-sich, but it also seems
that Hegel's claim to preserve the differences in his dialectical ascent
cannot be substantiated. With respect to zoology, Hegel admits with
commendable candor that the deduction not only fails to reach the
individuals but even fails to reach some subspecies. The concept animal
might perhaps be deduced, and even the species cow; but not Holstein-
Friesian, let alone Pieterje van Rijn III.

Hegel's candor removes the sting of the criticism, but it cannot be
maintained that his natural willingness to give himself the benefit of the
doubt has diminished its force. One wonders whether the species cow or
even the concept animal can be deduced. And so far as physics is
concerned, it is clear that no deduction of determinate being, quality, or

quantity can give us knowledge of the quality of sulphuric acid or the
atomic weight of gold. Can it not therefore be concluded that Hegel failed
to find the concrete universal he sought and has offered us only empty
abstractions?

Absolute Ignorance

There is a second criticism, and on these two the present refutation of
Hegelianism must depend. It was seen above that for Hegel the truth is the
whole, every determination is a negation, and an object's relationships are
logically internal to its meaning. A cat is not-a-dog; it is a part of the
essence of a cat to be not-a-dog. But to be not-a-dog is to be related to
dog, and this relation is internal to the meaning of cat. Thus cat and dog,
sense object and self, are included in a larger whole. The All-Inclusive is
the Absolute.

That relations are internal, and especially that the truth is the whole, are
themes hard to deny. Yet their implications are devastating. So long as you
or I do not know the relationships which constitute the meaning of cat or
self, we do not know the object in question. If we say that we know some
of the relationships - e.g., a cat is not-a-dog - and admit that we do not
know other relationships - e.g., a cat is not-an-(animal we have never heard
of before) - it follows that we cannot know how this unknown relationship
may alter our view of the relationship we now say we know. The alteration
could be considerable. Therefore we cannot know even one relationship
without knowing all. Obviously we do not know all. Therefore we know
nothing.

This criticism is exceedingly disconcerting to an Hegelian, for its principle
applies not merely to cats, dogs, and selves, but to the Absolute itself. The
truth is the whole and the whole is the Absolute. But obviously we do not
know the whole; we do not know the Absolute. In fact, not knowing the
Absolute, we cannot know even that there is an Absolute. But how can
Absolute Idealism be based on absolute ignorance? And ours is absolute
ignorance, for we cannot know one thing without knowing all.

The Rationalism of the seventeenth century, British Empiricism, the
critical philosophy of Kant, and now Hegelianism have all tried and have all
failed to justify knowledge. Reason apart from revelation has come to grief.
The only remaining possibility of escaping revelation now is to abandon
reason. It is a bitter pill for man to swallow, but some men would rather

wallow in abysmal ignorance than accept information by the grace of God.

Faith without Reason

Throughout the history of the Christian church there have appeared from
time to time individuals and groups who look with disfavor on reason,
intellect, and higher learning. From the Patristic period Tertullian is often
quoted as saying, "I believe because it is absurd." Although this is not
precisely what Tertullian said, his opposition to pagan culture is well known.
What has the Christian in common with the philosopher, he declaims; the
church with the Academy; revelation with reason? Yet, because he did
some philosophizing himself, perhaps he should be understood as
deprecating, not reason in general, but pagan reason only. Nonetheless,
there remains a suspicion that his is a faith without reason.

Types of Mysticism

There are other cases also where, although the phrase cannot be applied
with complete literalistic rigor, there is a suspicion and more than a
suspicion that faith without reason is the ideal. The mystics form a
particularly noteworthy group.

Dionysius the Areopagite was a Christian Neoplatonist of the fifth
century. A few words of his will show, not that he utterly despised reason,
but that at least he placed a realm above reason. It is a realm in which the
categories of thought and of language are so strained that intelligible
meaning seems to have escaped. For example,

Triad supernal, both super-God and super-good, Guardian of the
theosophy of Christian men, direct us aright to the super-unknown and
super-brilliant and highest summit of the mystic oracles, where the
simple and absolute and changeless mysteries of theology lie hidden
within the super-luminous gloom of the silence, revealing hidden things,
which in its deepest darkness shines above the most super- brilliant,
and in the altogether impalpable and invisible fills to overflowing the
eyeless mind with glories of surpassing beauty .[9]

Neoplatonic mysticism, from which this Dionysius took his inspiration,
told of trances in which one's personality merged into the perfect simplicity
of an original One. In this One, the simplicity is so perfect that there is not
even the dualism of subject and predicate. Therefore, in this realm

knowledge is impossible, for all knowledge consists in the attribution of
predicates to subjects: The cat is black, the number four is even, or
William was a conqueror. But in the trance or absorption, there is not even
an I and thou. There is only the pure simplicity of the One. For this reason,
not only is there no knowledge during the trance, but even upon recovery a
man can say nothing true about it because he would have to use the duality
of sentences to speak or to know.

Although this characterization is taken from Plotinus and pagan
mysticism, it applies to the Christian mystics as well. Bernard of Clairvaux,
the devout opponent of proud Abelard's dialectical skill, speaks of becoming
penetrated with God as air is penetrated with light. Meister Eckhart and
Nicholas of Cusa use many expressions that parallel those of Plotinus. It is
a matter of common agreement that the mystic consciousness is not
clearly differentiated into subject and object. The experience is not sharply
focused, if focused at all. Subject and object, I and thou, are fused or
confused in an undifferentiated one. With enthusiasm, but in unintelligible
phraseology, the mystic speaks of being flooded with an inrush from the
abysses of inner life; or he says that transcendental energies invade the
soul, and the whole being, in an integral and undivided experience, finds
itself.

There are gradations of mystical opinion. The Neoplatonic type, whether
in Plotinus or in Nicholas, did not forgo the rigorous use of reason in
ordinary philosophical and ecclesiastical problems. But they agree that the
soul's union with Absolute Reality is not intellectual. God can be known only
negatively. No finite qualities, that is, no definite qualities, can be ascribed
to him. He is not good, not just, not wise, not anything. We unite with him;
we merge ourselves in him in wordless communion, in a consciousness that
transcends ideas.

Other mystics, or, if the term mystic is not applicable here, others who
speak of a faith without reason, diverge from the Neoplatonic standard in
two ways. They have no liking for philosophy nor do they rest upon
wordless trances. This negative description, admittedly broad, includes
groups otherwise quite dissimilar. It includes not only the anarchical
prophets of Zwickau who did not need to study Greek or Hebrew because
God would speak to any excited peasant - but also the later devout, sober,
and earnest pietists. And who can be too hard on the pietists? Living a
moral, godly life, they see the cold formalism of the educated classes and

repudiate systematic theology in favor of a simple and warm-hearted
devotion.

In the twentieth century the fundamentalists, in varying degrees,
advocate a faith without reason. Although they stress Bible study more
than the pietists and the anarchical prophets did, they frequently inveigh
against philosophy and "mere" human reason. Even in doctrine they do not
ordinarily go beyond half-a-dozen fundamental beliefs. Anything further is
dry-as-dust theology.

If it is inaccurate to categorize the positions of these groups as that of
faith without reason, it is because the disparagement of the intellect
always involves a certain amount of inconsistency. It takes a little
intellectual argument to justify the disparagement. And particularly in the
case of the fundamentalists with their zealous defense of a few doctrines,
reason cannot be wholly abandoned. Some use and acknowledge more, some
less. Such variation and inconsistency make it difficult accurately to
classify all these groups under one heading. Nevertheless, the mystics (at
least in what they consider most important), the pietists and
fundamentalists, and still more another viewpoint to be mentioned in a
moment have the common tendency of a faith without reason.

This other viewpoint, so popular and powerful at the present time, is
often called by the name of Neo-orthodoxy. It is even more anti-rational or
anti-intellectual than either pietism or fundamentalism. Its background and
motivation are also different. Instead of being a dilution of original
Protestantism as fundamentalism is, Neo-orthodoxy descends from post-
Hegelian philosophy. To understand it, therefore, and to see where anti-
intellectualism may lead one, it will be necessary briefly to trace certain
strands of nineteenth-century thought, even though it is not all distinctly
religious.

In the previous chapter, the Renaissance attempt to justify knowledge
without appeal to revelation has been quickly surveyed. The Rationalism of
Descartes and Spinoza, British Empiricism, and Kant and Hegel have been
adjudged failures. Though their brilliance evokes our admiration, their
results cannot be accepted. The judgment that Hegel failed is not a biased
judgment of a Christian whose ulterior motive is to defend revelation; it is
also the judgment of those who were more eager to destroy Christianity
than Hegel was.

Karl Marx

The contemporary rejection of Hegelianism was begun by two of Hegel's
students, Karl Marx and Soren Kierkegaard. As Marx had the greater
immediate success and because he was less radical than Kierkegaard, Marx
will be briefly discussed first.

To a certain extent Marx (1818-1883) profited from the work of a lesser
contemporary, Ludwig Feuerbach (1804-1872). In opposition to Hegel's
Idealism, Feuerbach held that reality consists of individual, material things.
As a student, he had noted the epistemological difficulties of materialistic
behaviorism; but now he decided to ignore them. Sensation and sensation
alone can disclose real existence to us. The deduction of existence from
essence is a dream, and therefore Hegel's operation with concepts lost
contact with reality. In particular, Hegel's philosophy lost contact with
individual human beings. Men were considered as essentially intellectual and
cognitive, whereas a man - that is, a human body - is fundamentally
emotional and is determined not by idealistic fancies but by what he eats.
Der Mensch ist was er isst.

Marx continues this materialistic behaviorism. Thought is a product of
the brain. And because the universe is physical, all is in constant flux -
nothing is fixed. It is thus that Marx transforms Hegel's dialectic of
concepts into the physical process of dialectical materialism. Indeed, the
great merit of Hegel, in contrast with Spinoza for example, was to
acknowledge flux and process; while at the same time the great self-
contradiction of Hegel was to end this process in a fixed Absolute.

The present discussion can have nothing to do with the economic and
political aspects of Marx's philosophy. The one point to be emphasized is
Marx's abandonment of intellectualism. Epistemology, mathematics, and
ethics are cases in point. Like Feuerbach, he virtually ignores epistemology.
At best, he disposes of solipsism on the basis that it is a mockery of the
efforts of the working class to liberate itself. The philosophical problems
relative to the foundations of mathematics are pushed back into the
obscurity of an unknown evolutionary past. In ethics Marx espouses a
relativistic theory. Rights become class demands that are to be enforced
rather than proved by rational argument. The claim of one class must give
way to another, and only force decides which; success is the test of truth.

To be sure, in speaking of the physical constitution of nature, in spite of
his insistence on universal flux, Marx seems to admit the fixed truth of

materialism. It is not necessary for the present purpose to contend that
Marx was free from such self-contradictions. The point of this brief
account is that modern philosophy's reliance on human reason is called into
question. This is one of the first two attacks on intellectualism. The second
is far more radical and thoroughgoing.

S0ren Kierkegaard

Spren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), although he would not be classed with
Karl Marx by the superficial reader, is nonetheless in certain basic respects
a typical representative of the mid-nineteenth century. In his revolt against
the systematic Rationalism of Hegel, in his attack on official Christianity,
and in the anti-intellectualism that permeated the Romantic movement, this
Melancholy Dane expressed the widely held opinion that there was
something rotten in the state of Denmark, i.e., Europe or Christendom. He
also largely agreed with Feuerbach and Marx as to the symptoms of
rottenness, but with respect to the cause and the cure he diverges from
them radically.

Marx had diagnosed the sickness of society as an economic malady; but,
asserts Kierkegaard, the social reform which the time demands is the
opposite of what it needs. The malady is not economic; it is spiritual and
religious. The spirit of the age has been substituted for the Holy Spirit; man
has taken the place of God; and time has swallowed up eternity. If Marx, in
his erroneous diagnosis, had criticized Hegel for being too Christian and too
abstract, Kierkegaard attacks them both: Hegel for not being Christian
enough and Marx (or at least socialism, for it is not clear how definitely
Kierkegaard had Marx in mind) for being too Hegelian. Their common flaw,
for after all Hegel was a socialist in fact if not in name, was their
disregard for the individual. Any object, for instance a pen, is enough to
confront abstract thinking with the problem of individual existence; but
individual persons are more important than pens. Persons are important: In
particular, I am extremely important to me; and my problem, i.e., the
problem of the person in his individuality, is basically religious. Now, Hegel
had lost the person, not merely the pen, in the universality of the world
process; for systematic Rationalism cannot give an account of real
individual existence.

It is not true that the real is the rational. Reality, asserts Kierkegaard,
cannot be grasped by reason. In spite of the argument in the

Phenomenology, the immediate, the now, the this, and especially the mine
cannot be aufgehoben or suppressed. Hegel tried to explain the world by the
movement of the idea; but there is no motion in logic, nor is there logic in
motion. Motion is illogical; becoming is open, not closed; reality is chance,
and chance cannot be put into logic. By his identification of essence and
existence Hegel got conceptual existence only, while real existence eluded
him. His inability to see the difference between thought and being was a
result of his thinking as a professional thinker rather than as a man.
Perhaps for philosophy, existence and non-existence are of equal worth. The
System (and the proletariat as well) is not concerned with a single person.
But for the existing individual, e.g., for me, I and my existence are of
greatest value. Contrary to all abstractionism - whether of Plato (for he
was a communist too), or of Hegel, or of Marx - the what is unimportant
and the that is essential. Therefore, the duty of man is not exemplified in
the studious activity of Professor Hegel. Reality cannot be taught or
communicated rationally and academically. It must be grasped personally,
passionately, anti-intellectually. It is not conclusions that are needed, but
decisions.

This same criticism applies to Marx and Feuerbach also. They are
scarcely less abstract than Hegel. In Humanity as well as in the Absolute
Spirit the individual cannot be found. Mass movements of faceless men
undoubtedly have the strength of numbers, but such leveling and
amalgamation weaken the individual ethically. The mass man has lost
responsibility and the power of making decisions. To face the confusion of
the times and to stand before eternity requires, not human similarity, but
Christian individuality. In nature the individual is merely an instance of the
species; anyone who improves a breed of sheep changes every individual.
But religion is not a matter of the species, and it is foolish to suppose that
Christian parents automatically produce Christian children. Spiritual
development is radically individual, and the cure for society is the cure of
individuals. Because society is afraid of individualists, this cure will not be
easy. There will be bloodshed: not the bloodshed of Communistic revolution
and battle, but the bloodshed of individual martyrs.

Anyone but an Hegelian or a socialist must feel a measure of sympathy
for this rugged individualism, and they can applaud the sarcasm that
Kierkegaard directed against an empty and insincere religious formalism.
But when one turns from the negative to the positive, from the destructive

to the constructive, can one seriously conclude or decide that Kierkegaard's
statements are true?

For Kierkegaard, God is truth; but truth exists only for a believer who
inwardly experiences the tension between himself and God. If an actually
existing person is an unbeliever, then for him God does not exist. God
exists only in subjectivity. This emphasis on subjectivity and the
corresponding disparagement of objectivity result in the destruction of
Christianity's objective historicity. The historical is not religious and the
religious is not historical. If Christ were an historical figure who lived a
long time ago, he would have no religious significance now. Conversely, if
Christ is a religious figure, the historical interval must be cancelled by an
inner contemporaneity. Real religion does not consist in understanding
anything. It is a matter of feeling, of anti-intellectual passionateness. The
acceptance of any objective historical truth depends on historical methods,
and the objective student of history is too modest to put his own feelings
into his conclusions. Speculative thinkers are not personally interested in
suffering; they do not study the subjective truth of appropriation.

But Christianity has always been regarded as an historical religion, not
merely in the sense that it has had a history of nineteen hundred years, but
specifically in the sense that it is based on historical events that happened
that long ago. For Hegel these events and their significance were integral
parts of universal history regarded as the developing expression of the
Absolute Spirit. But for Kierkegaard the relation between the process of
history and eternal truth is a paradox. In the language of Kierkegaard and
his twentieth-century followers, the term paradox indicates something more
embarrassing than those queer puzzles which after some difficulty can be
solved and understood intellectually. An elementary student of physics is
puzzled when he is told that the water pressure at the bottom of one
container is twice that of another even though the former container has but
half the weight of water. This is a paradox. It is solved by learning the
relation of height to pressure. But an existentialist paradox is insoluble. It
is a contradiction to suppose that eternal blessedness can be based on
historical information. Therefore the subjectivity of appropriation is not
continuous with, but stands in opposition to, an historical dissemination of
Christian teaching. Passionate appropriation, the moment of decision, does
away with the interval of history and makes one inwardly contemporaneous
with Christ. The method is not intellectual; it is an experience of suffering

and despair. The detached objective truth of Christianity is not to be had.
Beginning with the preaching of the Apostles, all the centuries of history
are worthless as a proof of it. The objective truth of Christianity is
equivalent to its subjective indifference, its indifference to the subject, i.e.,
to me.

This type of thought provokes an obvious question. If there is no
objective truth, if the how supersedes the what, then can truth be
distinguished from fancy? Would not a suffering Satan be just as "true" as
a suffering Savior? Would not an inner, infinite, decisive appropriation of the
devil be as praiseworthy as a decision for God? The philosophy of William
James will later raise the same question, though James does not seem to
be aware of the question; Kierkegaard notices the dilemma, but can hardly
be said to solve it. There is a half-hearted effort to distinguish between the
inwardness of infinity and the inwardness of the finite; and he seems to
say that the infinity of Christian inwardness is based on God, whereas the
inwardness of finitude relates to some other object. Now, if there were
objective knowledge of God and of other objects, an individual could judge
the quality of his passion on the basis of its objective reference; but if God
and perchance the devil also are hidden, and if one is limited to a
subjective, passionate appropriation, there would seem to be no
distinguishable difference between the truth of God and the truth of Satan.
Objectively it is indifferent whether one worships God or an idol. Whether
God exists or not is immaterial. What counts is the individual's relation to
an unknown Something.

In his vivid style Kierkegaard describes two men in prayer. The one is in
a Lutheran church, and he entertains a true conception of God; but because
he prays in a false spirit, he is in truth praying to an idol. The other is
actually in a heathen temple praying to idols; but since he prays with an
infinite passion, he is in truth praying to God. For the truth lies in the
inward how, not in the external what. Or, again, Kierkegaard says, "An
objective uncertainty held fast in an appropriation process of the most
passionate inwardness is the truth, the highest truth attainable for an
existing individual."

Finally, another statement also found in his Concluding Unscientific
Postscript - a statement just as definite as the preceding - expresses
Kierkegaard's subjectivity. After remarking that a search for objective truth
takes no account of the relation of the individual to that truth, Kierkegaard

continues, "If one asks subjectively about the truth, one is reflecting
subjectively about the relation of the individual; if only the How of this
relation is in truth, then the individual is in truth, even though he is thus
related to untruth."

Suppose now that there are serious flaws in Hegel's "System"; suppose
too that the Communistic mass man violates the prerogatives of the moral
individual; suppose in the third place that the Danish Lutheran Church was
formal, hypocritical, and dead; suppose, therefore, that Kierkegaard has
made some telling criticisms of his contemporaries. Does this then imply
that the cure can be effected by a suffering or passion, a subjective feeling,
to which objective truth and untruth are equally indifferent? If this were
true, not only would an idol be as satisfactory as God, but Hegel or Marx
would be as satisfactory as Kierkegaard.

Through the nineteenth century and down to World War I, Kierkegaard
remained unknown. The revolt against reason, however, continued. Though
much must be omitted, the advance made by Friedrich Nietzsche is
particularly worthy of mention.

Friedrich Nietzsche

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), so far as German philosophy is
concerned, was the culmination of the nineteenth century. Its second half
had brought great advances in science. Physicists considered that they had
completely demonstrated the truth of mechanism. Ludwig Fechner, although
he attempted to found an empirical psychology, rejected mechanism under
the inspiration of grand romantic ideas and peopled his universe with souls,
angels, and gods. Rudolph Lotze made the intellect, not an instrument for
representing things, but for transforming them. Being is in flux, and reality
is richer than thought. William Wundt abandoned monism and pictured the
universe as a plurality of wills. And Darwin (though not a German),
revolutionized, not only biology, but all phases of philosophic thought. From
these sources Nietzsche took what appealed to him and completed the
nineteenth century's atheistic, materialistic, anti-Hegelian worldview.

Nietzsche's theory of evolution, his Superman, his eternal recurrence, his
transvaluation of all values, must be omitted. Attention is restricted to his
opinions on the powers of reason. In Nietzsche's view there is no such
thing as mind; the proper starting place is the body as it has evolved. What
Descartes and Kant mistook for an ego, instead of being a simple subject,

is a multiplicity of conflicting desires or urges. Therefore, the notion that
the world proceeds so that human reason must be true is downright
simple-minded. Everything that reaches our consciousness is simplified,
adjusted, and interpreted. We never find a fact in nature; we never grasp
things as they are. The whole apparatus of knowing is a simplifying device,
directed not at truth but at the appropriation and utilization of our world.
Philosophers have believed that in the forms of reason a criterion of reality
had been found; whereas the only purpose of these forms is to master
reality by misunderstanding it intelligently. This means that the will to
logical truth presupposes a fundamental falsification of all phenomena.
What we now call truth therefore is that kind of error without which a
species cannot live. The object of mental activity is not to know, in any
scholastic sense, but to schematize and to impose as much regularity on
chaos as practical needs require. After all, why should we be so greatly
interested in truth? Falsity is no objection against an opinion; the important
question is, Does this opinion sustain life? Indeed, to understand how the
abstrusest metaphysical assertions of a philosopher have been arrived at, it
is always well and wise to first ask oneself, What morality does he aim at?
Behind all logic there are physiological demands for a mode of life.

Logic depends on the law of contradiction, but instead of this law's being
necessary, it is only a sign of inability - our inability to affirm and deny one
and the same thing. We cannot talk without using it. But for this very
reason it should be examined the more carefully. The law of contradiction
claims to be ontological as well as logical. It assumes something about
Being. But to suppose that logic is adequate to reality requires a knowledge
of reality prior to and independent of the law. Obviously then the law of
contradiction holds good only of assumed existences that we have created.

These ways of thinking have been bred in us through the long
evolutionary process, and they are now so ingrained that no amount of
experience can change them. They are indeed a priori for the individual, but
for the human race they are evolutionary end products. Belief in causality
and contradiction may be and is useful, but this does not make them true.
In fact, they must be false, for knowledge and evolution are mutually
exclusive. The character of the world in process of becoming is not
susceptible of intellectual formulation. Parmenides said, One can form no
concept of the non-existent; we are now at the other extreme and say,
That of which a concept can be formed is certainly fictional.

William James

After Nietzsche the American school of Pragmatism continued the attack
on reason. William James (1842-1910), inspired by French as well as by
these German developments, made a vigorous onslaught on Hegelian
Absolutism and fixed truth. As before, only the barest essentials and most
pertinent points can be crowded into this short account.

Over the domain of theism and absolutism, writes James, "you will find
the trail of the serpent of rationalism, of intellectualism" (Pragmatism, 19).
Intel lectualism is a serpent because its transcendental principles are
useless. "You can deduce no single actual particular from the Absolute....
And the theistic God is almost as sterile.... Theism is more insipid, but
both are equally remote and vacuous." James also repeats the accusation
that Hegel confuses conceptual flux with physical flux, for which reason the
conceptual treatment of the flow of reality is inadequate. Inadequate, that
is, to the reality itself. Knowledge must come through experience - not
experience consisting of discrete, atomic, simple ideas, but experience as
an ever-flowing stream of consciousness. There are no discrete data;
nothing is separate or distinct; things are constantly merging into each
other; there are no distinctions such as matter and form, substance and
relation. To be sure, concepts have a practical value; we select portions of
experience and arbitrarily set them off; this process serves our purposes
well, but such concepts are far from satisfying the demands of rationalistic
speculation; they are purely practical. Our fundamental ways of thinking,
the categories and the law of contradiction, are discoveries of exceedingly
remote ancestors. Lobsters and bees no doubt have other modes of
apprehending experience. Children and dogs do not use our adult categories;
their experience is virtually chaotic. Space and time are not Kantian
intuitions but patently artificial constructions, for the majority of the human
race uses several times and several spaces. Although our categories are
very useful, we cannot dogmatically deny that other categories
unimaginable by us today might have proved just as serviceable as those
we now use.

If this is the case and if we may apply James' principles to a selected
example, the syllogism called Barbara might have evolved as a fallacy. All
Athenians are Greeks and all Greeks are human beings might have implied
that some Athenians are non-human. Similarly, asserting the consequent
could have formed a valid argument; and we would have reasoned that all

numbers ending in zero are divisible by five, therefore twenty-five - since it
is divisible by five - must end in zero.

William James cannot dismiss these examples on the ground that they
are illogical, for, according to him, the present forms of logic are not
foolproof. Logic is too pat. It cannot grasp reality. So great is its failure
that when the Rationalists came to recognize that the real world escapes
their neat formulas, they invented unreal worlds from which these stubborn
facts were barred. Kant's rational will emigrated to the world of noumena;
F. H. Bradley escaped all contradictions somehow in the Absolute; and T. H.
Green relied on a transcendent Mind. But this is only to say that human
concepts falsify reality.

Unlike Nietzsche, however, James utilizes his irrationalism to support a
certain type of religion and ethics. Some notice of this must be taken, both
for its own importance as well as in preparation for what follows.

Absolutism and Pragmatism, says James, signify two different religious
attitudes. One man insists that the world must be and shall be saved; the
other believes that it may be. There is also another view; namely, the
world cannot be saved. Pragmatism, therefore, is an attitude midway
between pessimism and optimism; it may be called meliorism. The world
may become better because we can make it better.

James then offers this choice. Suppose the world's author came to you
before creation and said, I am going to make a world not certain of being
saved; it can be saved only if every agent does his level best [if any eases
up on the job, the result will be unfortunate]; now, then, do you want the
chance of taking part in this world, with its real dangers, with no guarantee
of safety, or would you prefer to relapse into the slumber of non-entity
from which I have just aroused you?

Note that James does not offer us a choice between this dangerous world
and one in which the good is absolutely guaranteed.

Absolutism seems here to have been forgotten. The choice is between
danger and Nirvana. And James is ready to make the choice for us. Any
"normally constituted" person with his "healthy-minded buoyancy" would
find such a universe exactly to his liking. Only a few "morbid minds,"
"Buddhists" who are "afraid of life," would refuse the opportunity. These
latter may be religious in a sense, but they are not moral. "In the end it is
our faith and not our logic that decides such questions." It is a faith in our
fellow men that they will all do their level best. It is also a faith in

superhuman forces, for there is a god - not an Almighty God who controls
the outcome - but a limited and finite god who helps us along; in fact he is
such a help that the danger is considerably reduced. Belief in this type of a
god is true because it works. Of course we do not know certainly that this
god exists,

for we do not yet know certainly which type of religion is going to
work best in the long run. [It is a matter for personal decision.] If
radically tough, the hurly-burly of the sensible facts of nature will be
enough for you, and you will need no religion at all.... But if you are
neither tough nor tender.. .the type of pluralistic and moralistic religion
that I have offered you is as good a religious synthesis as you are
likely to find.

In the section on Soren Kierkegaard, the question of personal decision
was also acute - a decision apart from any objective knowledge.
Kierkegaard personally made a choice that is not too different from James';
although Kirkegaard's Christianity is not what James would have preferred,
still both of them - along with Nietzsche - say Yes to the universe. But
when James calls his choice moral and other choices morbid, he seems to
imply that it is more than a personal choice. How can James distinguish
between a moral and an immoral choice? If he says that truth is that
which works, and that which works is that which gives personal
satisfaction, then the man who chooses Nirvana to danger seems to have
achieved more satisfaction than a Pragmatist is likely to. Is it likely that all
men will do their level best? Faith in mankind is an inspiring slogan, but the
tough facts suggest that one or two men in history have not worked full
time to make the world better. Assuredly James is consistent in choosing
danger for himself, since his theory depends on his personal decision; but
precisely for this irrational reason he cannot conclude that anyone else
ought to make the same choice.

Unfortunately this intellectualistic objection is based on the law of
contradiction. It assumes that a principle of philosophy should apply
consistently to all men. If success in satisfying personal preference
justifies the choice of one man, success in satisfying a different preference
should equally justify the opposite choice of another man. But it is
consistency and logic that James disallows.

Although Nietzsche and James stand outside the Christian tradition and

are thus examples of the collapse of human reason apart from knowledge
given by divine revelation, it was seen in the case of Kierkegaard that even
the religious thinking of the post-Hegelian era had turned toward
irrationalism. Therefore, to conclude the analysis of faith without reason,
mention must be made of Kierkegaard's influence on the twentieth century,
and for this purpose the thought of Emil Brunner shall be made to serve.

Emil Brunner

It is impossible and fortunately unnecessary to summarize all of
Brunner's publications for our purposes. But even with the restriction of
subject matter to irrationalism, one must break into the middle of things
somewhat arbitrarily. An interesting discussion of error is a good beginning.

Unlike those philosophers who stand so definitely outside the Christian
tradition, Brunner - in common with the main Neo-orthodox position -
recognizes that sin is a pervasive power in human life. Sin not only breaks
out in gross crime, but it affects our inner thinking as well. Since sin
alienates man from God, the mental effects of sin are seen more clearly
and more frequently when we try to think about God than when we think
about mathematics or physics. Not only does Brunner say that error due to
sin is more obvious in theology than in physics, but he adds that
mathematics and logic are so far removed from the religious center of life
that in them there is no error at all.

This observation, which at first sight may seem so plausible, is in fact a
confusion between the objective and the subjective. In it, Brunner -
following Kierkegaard's emphasis on subjectivity - seems to have denied
the distinction between the knowing person and the truth known. It is a
confusion between the how and the what.

Let us more carefully examine the nature of error in mathematics and
theology. Subjectively, the noetic deterioration caused by sin produces
mistakes in arithmetic and geometry as well as in theology. We all have
trouble with the stubs in our checkbooks. No doubt blunders in theology are
more serious, but it is plainly false to say that there is no error in our
mathematics.

Now, if Brunner should reply that although you and I make mistakes in
mathematics, mathematics itself - mathematics objectively considered -
contains no error, the answer is that theology itself - theology objectively
considered - contains no error either. Subjectively we make mistakes in

both; objectively the one is as true as the other. Hence Brunner's assertion
that theology contains the most error, physics less error, and mathematics
none at all is plausible only by confusing the objective and the subjective,
that is, only by erasing the distinction between the thinking person who
may make mistakes and the objectively true propositions. Or, better, it is a
denial of objective truth. This is consistent with Kierkegaard's anti-
intellectual passionate appropriation. God is the truth, Kierkegaard had said,
but God and truth exist only for someone who believes; an unbeliever need
not fear divine penalties because for an unbeliever God does not exist.
Truth is entirely subjective.

The subjectivizing of truth has serious consequences. For Brunner,
propositions (or abstract truths as he calls them), are merely pointers to a
so-called but poorly defined personal truth. Not only do words as sounds
have a merely instrumental function, but the conceptual content itself is
only a framework or receptacle for something else. Propositions are merely
pointers, and pointers can be effective whether they are true or false.
Brunner states very clearly that a pointer need not be true. Even a false
proposition points, because God is free from the limitations of abstract
truth and can reveal himself in false statements as easily as in true.

Gott kann [says Brunner in Wahrheit als Begegnung, 88],wenn er will,
einen Menschen sogar durch falsche Lehre sein Wort sagen.

Now, if we put aside the amenities of oblique expression and speak
pointedly and clearly, are we not forced to conclude that Brunner's words
point to a god who tells lies?

Could anything more clearly indicate that Neo-orthodoxy is more neo than
orthodox? Brunner certainly does not stand in the tradition of John Calvin.
To be sure, he uses the words revelation, transcendence, sin, and
incarnation; but their intellectual similarity to the Calvinistic concepts is nil.
One hesitates to classify Brunner with Nietzsche, but if they are not
brothers, their common irrationalism makes them at least cousins.

This is the point at which to stop. Although Brunner has published many
books, it is not profitable to examine any language unless truth is distinct
from error. A writer who gives them equal authority has repudiated the law
of contradiction and meaningful conversation ceases.

It is time, therefore, to draw a conclusion. Under the heading "Reason
Without Faith," the history of modern philosophy was seen to fail in its
attempt to base knowledge on unaided human resources. Even the secular

philosophers - those who have no interest in divine revelation - admit that
Spinoza, Kant, and Hegel did not produce a sound epistemology. In the
present chapter both secular and religious irrationalism have been
examined. Not only Nietzsche and James leave us in intellectual anarchy,
but Neo-orthodoxy also has concluded that human reason is a failure.
Although these latter writers have a doctrine of revelation, even in it they
fail to distinguish truth from falsity. Instead of saying, Let God be true, but
every man a liar; they say, Let God be false, and every man will be a liar
too. This type of philosophy is self-contradictory, self-destructive, and
intellectually stultifying.

Therefore I wish to suggest that we neither abandon reason nor use it
unaided, but - on pain of skepticism - acknowledge a verbal, propositional
revelation of fixed truth from God. Only by accepting rationally
comprehensible information on God's authority can we hope to have a sound
philosophy and a true religion.

Faith and Reason

In the foregoing, under the heading "Reason and Faith," arguments were
adduced that led to the repudiation of natural theology and the Thom ism of
the Roman Catholic Church. The Renaissance and modern attempts to base
knowledge on "Reason Without Faith" were next shown to result in a
disastrous skepticism. And immediately above, the religious implications of
irrationalism were indicated. It remains therefore to turn from negative
criticism and to provide some constructive view of "Faith and Reason."

A thoroughgoing construction would have to systematize a very large
number of factors. Unfortunately but necessarily the present attempt will
leave many questions unanswered. It is hoped, however, that the line of
thought adopted will amply justify two main conclusions. First, in opposition
to Deism, the Enlightenment, Spinozism, contemporary scientism, and all
dogmatic systems that oppose reason to faith, it will be shown that reason
and faith are not antithetical but harmonious. True, the harmony will not be
of the Thomistic variety. Second, in opposition to secular and chiefly to
religious irrationalism, faith will be given an intellectual content. These two
conclusions depend largely on acceptable definitions of faith and reason. For
Thomas Aquinas and John Locke, reason meant the sensory basis of all
knowledge. Descartes and Spinoza had another meaning. Several definitions
of faith also have occurred in the history of philosophy and theology. This

attempt too must choose its own meanings.

In addition to formal definitions, some background, history, and
discussion are also needed. This material presents two serious difficulties.
First, the history has to do with living religious movements and popular
evangelistic preaching. Hence there is a welter of views that defies
accurate generalization. If, however, no suggestion of universal agreement
is made, fairness requires only that the examples chosen conspire to
represent actual tendencies. The second serious difficulty is quite different
from the first. Whereas the history centers on popular and therefore
superficial phenomena, the discussion turns up exceptionally perplexing
technicalities. Reason and faith, since they are human activities, ought to
be viewed in the light of human personality as a whole. Some scheme of
psychology is required. And the details are endless. In this connection some
questions will be raised without being fully answered. They will nonetheless
serve as a setting in which the two main conclusions can be amply
established.

Popular Religion

The historical background in which these matters become parts of a
living religion and find a place in popular preaching can for our purposes be
conveniently restricted to fundamentalism in the United States. From the
point of view of the Westminster Confession, that is, from the point of
view of this entire argument, fundamentalism cannot be entirely condemned
nor entirely commended. Most fundamentalists accept important sections
of the Westminster Confession and reject other equally important sections.
Partly for this reason, fundamentalism does not quite fit into any of the
categories of the three preceding sections. The reference to it at the
beginning of the last section might even appear unfair. Admittedly, its
classification as a form of mysticism was inadequate. Fundamentalism's
firm attachment to a few doctrines saves it from the excesses of
irrationalism, but at the same time the fundamentalists can hardly be said
to embrace a wholehearted intellectualism. Frequently they deplore reason,
knowledge, and scholarship; they sometimes speak contemptuously of
"mere human logic"; and one of their complaints against Romanism is that
it reduces faith to mere intellectual assent. Yet, how can fundamental
doctrines be defended by a general disparagement of reason? If they insist
on any doctrine at all, how can they recommend a faith that is devoid of

intellectual content?

They do, however; that is, some do; at least they seem to. It has
already been admitted that in a popular movement such as fundamentalism
there is a wide variety of views. Perhaps the example about to be given of
the irrationalistic strain in fundamentalism is one of the more extreme
cases. Even so, an extreme case may be needed to produce the impression
that ought to result from a long list of less extreme cases. At any rate the
following conversation actually took place. It is neither fiction nor is it
exaggerated.

A minister of fundamentalist persuasion and evangelistic zeal asserted
that there is little hope of understanding the Bible. Theology is abstruse and
doubtful. However, God has given his people the power of discerning the
hearts of men, and with this power a minister can decide who should and
who should not be admitted to church membership. In the confused and
confusing discussion that followed, as this minister tried in vain to list the
factors discerned in the hearts of men, Romans 10:9-10 made their
appearance. At first, in the rapid exchange of ideas, the minister was
inclined to agree that anyone satisfying the conditions of that passage was
a saved person. But when it was pointed out to him that belief in Christ's
resurrection was a belief about history, an intellectual acceptance of an
historical proposition, he quickly corrected himself and denied that a belief
in Christ's resurrection entails salvation. Salvation, he asserted, is not a
matter of belief at all.

This viewpoint would certainly affect one's exegesis of Romans 10:9-10.
It obviously divorces faith from belief, if faith saves and belief does not.
But of course no one would expect such a minister to be very consistent in
his assertions. The example may be extreme, but it serves the purpose of
stressing the undeniable fact that fundamentalism is an inconsistent affair.
Nor is it only the fundamentalism of the decades between the two World
Wars that is inconsistent. The specific inconsistency relative to the
intellectual content of faith has descended from earlier forms of
Protestantism. Therefore, it is fitting to put the question in terms of a
long-standing Protestant objection to Romanism.

According to many Protestant writers, Roman Catholicism is seriously
mistaken in making faith mere intellectual assent to certain dogmas. Faith,
true faith in Christ, these writers say, is a personal trust rather than a
"cold" intellectual belief. On the other side, the Catholic Encyclopedia

states, "Non-Catholic writers have repudiated all idea of faith as intellectual
assent" (1913, 752).

Perhaps, however, the truth of the matter is not put accurately in either
of these brief characterizations. The Catholic Encyclopedia has substantial
grounds for charging Protestantism with anti-intellectualism, but its actual
statement is ambiguous and in one of its two senses it is false. On the
other side, the Protestant complaint about mere intellectual assent is
extremely confused. To show this confusion it is necessary to turn from a
description of popular religion to a discussion of psychological intricacies.
This does not mean that the historical background is to be dismissed with
one illustration; other descriptive examples will be cited; but the emphasis
will rest more on the academic merits of the case than on examples of
rash ministerial assertions.

The Analysis of Personality

In order to define faith, some analysis of personality is needed. Whatever
faith is said to be, distinctions among conscious activities are presupposed.
According to a very common opinion, consciousness consists of these
parts: intellect, volition, and emotion. Faith may be placed under one of
them, or it may be described as a combination of two of them, or possibly
of all three. At any rate, some analytical scheme is required. Now, one of
the many difficulties in this procedure arises from the necessity of
expressing Biblical truth in non-Biblical terminology. In itself, the use of
non-Biblical terminology cannot legitimately be objected to. The term
Trinity does not occur in the Bible, but all trinitarians hold that the ideas
and relationships for which the term stands are solidly Biblical. Similarly,
the word emotion does not occur in the Bible, at least not in the King
James Version. However, in the use of new terminology, a certain amount
of caution is necessary. In the first place, one must make sure that the
terms are unambiguously defined. Unfortunately, many discussions of faith
fail to define intellect, will, or emotion. Those who use the terms seem to
have but a nebulous idea of their meaning, and a little Socratic questioning
soon reveals the unintelligibility.

There is also another caution to be observed. After the new term is
properly defined, its relation to the Biblical material must be clarified. The
use of a non-Biblical term in theological discussion is evidence of a
technical precision and economy that the Bible itself lacks. No Biblical term

corresponds precisely to the new one, and the new term does not exactly
reproduce any single term of Scripture. Therefore, complete confusion
results if the new term is surreptitiously equated with some familiar term
in the Bible. This has happened with great frequency in the identification of
the Hebrew term heart with the emotion of popular psychology. The Biblical
meaning of this term will be discussed below, but here emphasis falls on
the general principle. When a new term is introduced into theology and is
precisely defined, it must never be carelessly assumed but must always be
carefully substantiated that the new term and definition adequately express
Scriptural ideas.

Then, does or does not the Bible support the popular tripartite division of
the soul? Obviously, modern psychology offers divisions other than intellect,
will, and emotion. Sigmund Freud specified the id, the ego, and the
superego, plus a libido whose relation to them is not too clear. Granted that
this Freudian division has an evil odor among the devout; still its very
recognition of inherent evil resembles the Christian view of hereditary and
total depravity sufficiently to claim a Christian's consideration. Or, perhaps
some third analysis is better than either of these two. In any case, a hasty
assumption cannot be permitted.

Because care is called for, because on principle the analysis finally to be
chosen must square with the Bible, and because - as was pointed out a
moment ago - the heart of the Bible has often been identified with the
emotions of popular psychology, a brief survey of the Biblical data must be
made.

The key term of Biblical psychology, especially in the Old Testament
where the fundamental principles are laid down, is the term heart. When
contemporary Christians, often in evangelistic preaching, contrast the head
and the heart, they are in effect equating the heart with the emotions. Such
an antithesis between head and heart is nowhere found in Scripture. On the
contrary, this usage at once indicates a departure from the Old Testament.
In the Psalms and the prophets the heart designates the focus of personal
life. It is the organ of conscience, of self-knowledge, indeed of all
knowledge. One may very well say that the Hebrew heart is the equivalent
of the English word self.

To understand Old Testament usage, consider the following few
examples:

Genesis 6:5 Every intent of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually .

Genesis 8:21 The Lord said in his heart, “I will never again....

Genesis 17:17 Then Abraham . . .said in his heart, “Shall a child be born. .

Genesis 20:6 You did this in the integrity of your heart....

1 Samuel 2:1 My heart rejoices in the Lord....

1 Samuel 2:35 A faithful priest who shall do according to what is in my heart
and in my mind.

Psalm 4:4 Meditate within your heart.

Psalm 7:10 God, who saves the upright in heart.

Psalm 12:2 They speakidly... with... a double heart.

Psalm 14:1 The fool has said in his heart, “There is no God.”

Psalm 15:2 He. ..speaks the truth in his heart.

Isaiah 6:10 Lest they ...understand with their heart.

Isaiah 10:7 Nor does his heart think so.

Isaiah 33:18 Your heart will meditate on terror.

Isaiah 44:18, 19 He has shut.. .their hearts, so that they cannot
understand. And no one considers in his heart, nor is there knowledge
nor understanding.

As there are somewhat over 750 occurrences of the word heart in the
Old Testament, these quotations give a meagre sample. But they are
enough to show that many verses would make complete nonsense if the
term were translated emotion. For example, if this identification were
made, it would be necessary to say, They speak idly.. .and with double
emotions do they speak; and, He speaks truth in his emotions; and, lest
they understand with their emotions. Obviously this substitution results in
nonsense. It is not to be denied that the Biblical term heart can and does
occasionally refer to the emotions, as in 1 Samuel 2:1, though even here
there must be some intellectual understanding. But although the emotions
are sometimes referred to, the term heart more often signifies the
intellect. It is the heart that speaks, meditates, thinks, and understands. At
the same time, it cannot be uniformly translated intellect as distinguished
from the will or the emotions. This is not because it excludes or is
antithetical to the mind, the understanding, or the intellect, but because it
includes them all and signifies the total personality. The term heart in
reality means the self, or, with some colloquial emphasis, one's deepest
self. And as the self acts emotionally, volitionally, and intellectually, the
three activities are each represented in the several occurrences of the

term. Although the term heart includes the emotions and therefore cannot
be translated intellect, still the intellectual reference occurs much more
frequently than any other; and this preponderance of the intellectual
references shows the preponderance of the intellect in the personality.

It is extremely difficult to appreciate the motives, at least in the case of
those who are attached to the Bible, which lead to a disparagement of the
intellect. Why should emotion be the only way or even the best way to
God? Why is it that thinking, meditating, understanding are to be
condemned? Why is knowing, conceiving, or apprehending God a poor way,
an impossible way, or an impious way of worshiping him? What is wrong
with intellectual activity?

Then too, this denigration of the intellect in favor of the emotions, and
possibly the traditional tripartite division itself, may entail a so-called
faculty psychology that contradicts the Biblical emphasis on the unitary
personality. Parenthetically it may be noted that this applies to Freud also.
This type of psychology is not to be condemned so much for its unsavory
overtones as it is for its schizophrenic splitting of the personality. Freudian
psychology is faculty psychology with a vengeance.

The Bible does not suggest a faculty psychology. Although discussions
such as these can hardly avoid using the word intellect, let it be clear that
there is no "intellect": there are intellectual acts; there are no "emotions":
there are fluctuating surges of fear, anger, dejection, and exaltation.
Similarly there is no "will," no "id," no "superego," but a unitary person.

Thus the common, modern contrast between the head and the heart is
evidently unscriptural. There is a Scriptural contrast. It is the contrast
between the heart and the lips, for Matthew is quoting Isaiah when he says,
"These people... honor me with their lips, but their heart is far from me."
When the Scriptural contrast is replaced by an alien faculty psychology, the
possibility cannot be ruled out that other Scriptural theses are discarded at
the same time.

Trust and Assent

Two examples of this faulty psychology, especially this unscriptural
belittling of intellectual activity, will be described. Neither one is exactly
trivial; the second indeed affects one's total response to Christianity. The
first, a common confusion of thought frequently heard from evangelical
pulpits, may do less damage because its implications are not so obvious.

Yet it too can be symptomatic of wider aberrations.

In describing the nature of faith, fundamentalists, evangelicals (and even
modernists in a certain way) stress the element of trust. This is of course
what the Catholic Encyclopedia, as quoted above, referred to. A preacher
may draw a parallel between trusting in Christ and trusting in a chair.
Belief that the chair is solid and comfortable, mere intellectual assent to
such a proposition, will not rest your weary bones. You must, the preacher
insists, actually sit in the chair. Or, as another minister recently said, mere
belief that a bank is safe and sound will not protect your cash or give you
any interest. You must actually put your money in the bank. Similarly, so
goes the argument, you can believe all that the Bible says about Christ, and
it will do you no good. Such illustrations as these are constantly used in
spite of the fact that the Bible itself says, "Believe on the Lord Jesus
Christ, and you will be saved."

There is here at least a lack of analysis, a confounding of something
Scriptural and something that is not, a failure to equate two sides of an
analogy. The weak point of such illustrations is that they compare faith
with the physical act of sitting in a chair and distinguish it from belief.
Belief in Christ does not rest your weary bones, for belief is mere assent.
In addition you must actually sit down or deposit your money in the bank.
But this analogy does not hold. The distinction between believing that a
chair is comfortable and the act of sitting in it is perfectly obvious. But in
the spiritual realm there is no physical action; there is mental action only:
Hence the act of sitting down, if it means anything at all, must refer to
something completely internal and yet different from belief. Belief in the
chair has been made to stand for belief in Christ, and according to the
illustration belief in Christ does not save. Something else is needed. But
what is this something else that corresponds to the physical act of sitting
down? This is the question that is seldom if ever answered. The
evangelists put all their stress on sitting down, but never identify its
analogue.

When such one-sided illustrations are not used, the abstract phrases
disparaging intellectual assent are equally perplexing. Consider the words of
Dr. Thomas Manton in his Commentary on the Epistle of James. Dr. Manton
was a devout and pious Anglican, who - although he favored the restoration
of Charles II - was one of those ministers who was ejected from his pulpit
by the Act of Uniformity of 1662. His Commentary on James is a most

admirable and extremely profitable work. Yet when discussing the present
subject, he uses phrases that are hard to understand. For example, on
James 2: 19 he writes,

This instance showeth what faith he disputeth against; namely such
as consisteth in bare speculation and knowledge.... Such assent, though
it be not saving, yet so far as it is historical it is good, as a common
work and preparation.... Bare assent to the articles of religion doth not
infer true faith.... It is not only assensus axiomati.... There is not only
assent in faith, but consent.... True believing is not an act of the
understanding only, but a work of all the heart....

Insofar as these phrases and the section from which they are quoted
indicate the necessity of a faith that produces works, no good Christian
could in the least demur. It is Dr. Manton's particular excellence to have
emphasized this theme of the Epistle. If by "bare speculation" and "naked
illumination" one means a profession discovered to be hypocritical because
devoid of virtuous conduct, let us all insist that this is far removed from
saving faith. On this point Dr. Manton notices the phrase of James 2:14, "If
someone says he has faith," and remarks that the man may be supposed to
have no faith at all. His profession is hypocritical. He does not necessarily
believe any Christian doctrine. This situation is simply the Scriptural
contrast between the heart and the lips. Hypocrisy too is an intellectual act.
It is an intent to deceive. But surely the fact that hypocrisy is intellectual
does not imply that faith as an intellectual act is hypocrisy. If one
intellectual act is reprehensible, it does not follow that a different
intellectual act is.

Now, if Dr. Manton were merely rebuking hypocrisy and insisting that true
faith is followed by overt acts of charity, there would be no argument.
Nevertheless, although such is Dr. Manton's chief emphasis, there are slight
intimations of something further. Aside from the emphasis on good works,
bare assent is contrasted with consent. He had said, "There is not only
assent in faith, but consent." Consent no doubt refers to some internal
rather than overt action. What is this consent? Is it intellectual? If not, is
it emotional? Or does Dr. Manton think that it is an act of will? These
questions Dr. Manton does not answer. He does not define or explain the
term consent. He leaves it as a mere word. Hence it is of no help to us.

Again the previous question comes to the fore: If belief is represented by

believing that the chair is solid, and this is taken as mere intellectual
assent, what is represented by the different and separate act of actually
sitting down? Now, in a sense there is another factor; but when it is
identified, it will not turn out to be a different and separate act analogous
to sitting down. It will still be the same internal, mental act of assent,
though viewed in a different light. The difficulty in all this discussion
derives from the assumption that an act of "mere" intellectual assent is
possible. To this act the zealous evangelist wants to add emotions. Could it
not be that what needs to be added is not emotion, but an act of will?
Only, this "addition" is not really an addition at all, and a "mere" act of will
must be recognized to be just as impossible as "mere" assent. Undoubtedly
faith in Christ involves what is ordinarily and confusedly called an act of
will. Whether faith requires emotions or not - and if so, which emotions it
requires - are unimportant questions. Emotions by definition are fluctuating;
an emotional man is unstable and few people have a high opinion of him;
whereas, throughout our constantly changing emotional states, our beliefs
and the volitions founded on them remain comparatively fixed. And, to
return, faith surely involves the will.

However, when an attempt is made to use the illustration of the chair,
the difficulties of faculty psychology return in full force and the whole
collapses. Does not the language that includes such phrases as "mere
intellectual assent" betray its unscriptural foundation in schizophrenic
faculty psychology? Certainly intellection and volition do not occur in
isolation. There can be no volition without intellection. Even the illustration
of sitting in a chair shows this much. A person cannot will to sit in a chair
unless he believes that there is a chair to be sat upon. And conversely
there can be no intellection without volition, for intellectual assent is itself
an act of will.

If the Scholastics demur at this last proposition and try to exempt the
conclusions of demonstrative syllogisms from volitional acceptance, they do
so only by ignoring the voluntary assent required by the premises. The
Scholastics - and possibly more so the seventeenth-century Rationalists -
may insist that logic itself is not a voluntary choice, for no one can choose
to think otherwise. If someone thinks otherwise, it is an involuntary error.
Now, in the following chapter on language it will be strenuously maintained
that logic is not stipulative but necessary and irreplaceable. But to argue
that the necessary cannot be an act of will presupposes the theory of free

will, and free will will be disposed of in the final chapter. At any rate, the
use of logic requires a voluntary act of attention, as does every other
belief. One may choose simply not to think; or, rather, if he thinks, he
must choose to pay attention.

Furthermore, the forms of logic, devoid of other content, do not settle
questions of faith. The immediate subject has to do, as will shortly be
made still clearer, with theological and creedal propositions. These cannot
be deduced involuntarily from the forms of logic. Therefore, within the
range pertinent to questions of faith and reason, it may be asserted that
there can be no volition without intellection and no intellection without
volition. They should not be regarded as two separate faculties, nor even as
two separate acts. The common opinion that an act of volition is different
from an act of intellection is an illusion which results from the restriction
of attention to physical acts such as sitting down. But when the act is not
physical, when it is the act of believing a proposition to be true, the
supposed two acts so interpenetrate in a single mental state that they
become indistinguishable. One can distinguish belief in a chair or in
mathematics from belief in Christ, of course; that is, the particular objects
thought or willed can be distinguished; but the mental act is equally
volitional and intellectual. This is what is implied by saying that the person
is a unit. For some superficial purposes, mainly with respect to initiating
physical motions, a popular distinction in emphasis is made; but the
common threefold division of the person into emotion, intellect, and will is
as misleading as the id, the ego, and the superego.

There is also a further complication in the notion of belief or assent that
motivates the antipathy to intellectual activity. Those who say that
intellectual belief in Christ is of no value not only fall into the errors
exposed above, but they also in some instances fail to distinguish assent
from understanding. When they attack "mere assent" they probably mean -
though it is rash to guess what some people mean - that salvation is not
obtained by knowing the propositions in the Bible and understanding their
meaning. Obviously this is true. Many intelligent men know very well what
the Bible says; they understand it far better than many Christians; but they
are not saved and they are not Christians. The reason is that though they
understand, they do not believe. They know what the Bible says, but they
do not assent to it. But because understanding and believing are both
intellectual acts, those who think carelessly identify them. The distinction

between knowing the meaning of a proposition and believing it seems to be
too subtle, and therefore some preachers conclude that "mere belief" is of
no value. This conclusion is fallaciously drawn. Just because one intellectual
act - the understanding of what words mean - is less than faith, it does
not follow that faith or belief is not intellectual.

Exegesis will reveal that faith, Christian faith, is not to be distinguished
from belief. Consider Hebrews 11:1. "Faith is the substance of things hoped
for, the evidence of things not seen." This may not be a formal definition of
faith, but it must be accepted as a true statement about faith. The
American Revised Version says that "faith is assurance of things hoped for,
a conviction of things not seen." Assurance and conviction are belief, strong
belief, voluntary belief, and as intellectual as you please. They are
intellectual because their objects are meaningful propositions. Their objects
are truths. The heroes of faith, whom the chapter goes on to describe, all
believed some definite intellectual truths. In these cases, admittedly, their
faith was followed by physical action. Abel offered a sacrifice and Noah
built the ark. But the physical actions were not the faith itself. Faith is
something internal, mental, intellectual; as Hebrews 11:3 says, "By faith we
understand" something about the creation of the world. Surely this is an
intellectual act. And in explaining why "without faith it is impossible to
please [God]," verse six says, "for he who comes to God must believe that
he is." As a reply to those who disparage intellection with the illustration of
the chair, the considerations adduced seem to be sufficient.

Anti-intellectualism

The many confusions relative to faith, assent, volition, understanding, and
so on were used as a first example of a faulty psychology. There is now a
second example. Underlying the faulty psychology that gives rise to
misleading illustrations about chairs and banks is a distaste for creeds.
Creeds are too intellectual, and the type of religion we have been discussing
has strong tendencies to the emotional. Sometimes it hardly recognizes a
role for volition. But at any rate it exhibits a distaste for creeds. Perhaps,
however, this distaste should not be cited as a second example of the
faulty psychology. It might be better to take the distaste for creeds and
the faulty psychology itself as two examples of an underlying anti-
intellectualism.

From the standpoint of Calvinism, anti-intellectualism - a disparagement

of creeds, an essentially emotional outlook or a reliance on some ineffable
mystical experience - is a far more serious error in religion than some
unfortunate illustration in popular preaching. It may sound pious to
minimize belief in a creed and to exalt faith in a person, but the implication
is that it makes little or no difference what a man believes. Religion - I
refuse to say Christianity - thus becomes non-doctrinal. This anti-
intellectualism, clearly, is a broader theory than faculty psychology; and if
faculty psychology conflicts with Christianity at one or two points, the
broader theory will conflict at many more - in fact, at all points.

To return for a moment to Hebrews 11:6, we see that faith in God is
impossible without a creed. The first article of this necessary creed is that
God exists. And how obvious! Can a man come to God if he believes that
God does not exist? To turn an illustration back upon its originators, can
you take your money to a bank which you believe does not exist? It is not
even necessary to put the matter so strongly. The blatant atheist who
believes that God does not exist will not come, of course. But what of a
man, not a blatant atheist, who merely fails to believe that God does exist?
Can such a man any more easily come to God? Hebrews says, No; he who
comes to God must believe that he is.

This creed has also a second article which must be believed before one
can come to God. If a man believes merely that God exists, he will not
come: God in this case might be an indifferent deity with no concern for
man; he might even be annoyed at a man's bothering him; or possibly this
god might be some impersonal force. Therefore, before a man comes to
God, he must believe that he is the rewarder of those who diligently seek
him. This, of course, implies that God is personal. What an extensive
theology we are getting into! And how intellectual we have already become,
for we are now using the logical form of implication.

The slow progress of this argument may provoke an impatient rejoinder
that nonetheless intellectual belief is of no value. Do not the devils believe
and shudder? Misinterpretation of this verse in James has gone to the
extremity of making it conclusive against any saving efficacy of belief in
Christ. Yet the Scriptures say, "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and you
will be saved," and, "for with the heart one believes to righteousness." The
Epistle of James should not be so interpreted as to produce a contradiction
with the apostolic preaching in Acts. The belief that causes the devils to
shudder is a belief that God is one. Nothing more is said. Certainly it is not

a belief that Christ died for them. To show, as James does, that some
intellectual belief is inadequate, to show that some is fruitless, or even to
show that some is condemnatory is not to show that true faith is not
intellectual. The verse in James does not destroy the argument of this
chapter to the effect that faith requires a creed and must have intellectual
content. So also the points of the creed so far enumerated from Hebrews
are not said to be sufficient for salvation. They are said to be
indispensable. No one can come to God without this creed. For all its
insufficiency, its necessity must be emphasized because of the
contemporary disparagement of creeds and intellect by fundamentalists and
by the modernists as well.

For the same reasons, faith in Christ, no less than faith in God, requires
intellectual assent to theological propositions. The disjunction between faith
in a person and belief in a creed is a delusion. None of us proceeds on such
a principle in our human affairs. Trust in a person is a knowledge of a
person; it is a matter of assenting to certain propositions. Suppose I ask
you to lend me a sum of money and to trust me to repay it. On the
pleasant assumption that you have the money and do not immediately need
it (this is an intellectual belief too), will you make the loan without
believing certain propositions about me? Suppose you have heard that I am
dishonest? Suppose you believe I will skip out on you? Could you, with
these beliefs, say that intellectual assent is trivial and that you will trust
me all the same? Not many people are so stupid in business affairs. This
stupidity is reserved for non-intellectual, emotional religion. It is in religion
that the "heart" is said to be important, but not the head. But if this were
true, we could trust Christ for salvation without believing that he is
trustworthy, without believing that he can save, without believing that his
blood cleanses from all sin. We would need no creed, no statement of the
atonement, no historical information about Jesus; we would need only a
comfortable feeling around the non-Biblical "heart."

Although there have been mystics and assorted anti-intellectuals in every
age, although the influence of Kant, Schleiermacher, and Ritschl have made
anti-intellectualism popular in the form of modernism, and although neither
Neo-orthodoxy nor the ecumenical movement has returned to the historic
creeds (or to any creeds), the main current of Christianity has always been
intellectualistic. There has been variation of emphasis, of course; but
creeds or statements of belief have not been abandoned. There has always

been some recognition of the primacy of the intellect. Even the primacy of
the will, when in medieval Augustinianism it was opposed to the Thomistic
primacy of the intellect, did not devalue intellectual currency as
contemporary irrationalism does. And if, as suggested above, the intellect
and the will cannot really be separated, the medieval controversy militates
all the less against the intellect.

This long argument has had to treat of many details, not all taken from
the same source. To gather the complexities together, let it be
remembered that the Bible teaches the unity of the person; that faculty
psychology is unscriptural; that the Old Testament term heart is far more
intellectual than its use in present day preaching; that faith is an inner or
mental act, not properly compared with sitting on a chair; that Hebrews
shows the necessity of creeds; and that belief in a creed is both
intellectual and voluntary. Woven together like a tartan, some of the lesser
strands of the argument may be hard to keep in mind; but the overall
pattern should be obvious enough. However, before a final conclusion can be
drawn, the Biblical position on faith and reason should be given a more
definite and positive expression. This is all the more necessary because, in
addition to the many preceding complexities, there is still another most
important factor, so far hardly mentioned.

The Reformed Faith

The clearest expressions of Reformation theology and the most faithful
to the Scriptural data are to be found in the Reformed tradition. Three
Reformed writers, therefore, will first be cited.

Calvin (Institutes I, xv, 6-8), after he summarizes some philosophical
analyses of the soul's faculties and indicates that they are plausible but far
from certain - particularly because the philosophers ignore the depravity of
human nature due to sin - proposes a twofold, not a threefold, division of
the soul: understanding and will. There is no power in the soul other than
these two. Understanding, he says, discriminates between objects, and the
will chooses what the understanding pronounces good. The understanding is
the guide and governor of the soul; the will always respects its authority
and waits for its judgment. Charles Hodge also, speaking of man before the
fall, says, "His reason was subject to God; his will was subject to his
reason." f 101 And finally, J. Gresham Machen states, "it will be one chief
purpose of the present little book to defend the primacy of the intellect."

mi

It is significant that these writers say so little about the emotions. The
emphasis is on the intellect. Machen in his "little book" speaks of the
emotional aspect of faith apparently but once (135); but the word is all that
appears, for the context has nothing to do with the emotions.

The quotations just made from the three authors might be taken to
indicate that they favor the Thomistic primacy of the intellect rather than
the Augustinian primacy of the will. They seem to say that the intellect
invariably and automatically dominates the will. Calvin indeed said that it is
the office of the will to choose what the understanding shall have
pronounced to be good and that the will always respects its authority
(Institutes, I, xv, 7). Now, there have been plausible Aristotelian arguments
to the effect that the will automatically chooses what appears as good to
the intellect. Freedom of the will from the intellect is thus repudiated. And
possibly Calvin had this theory in mind when he wrote this section. But if
we stress the unity of the person more than Calvin did and insist that
intellectual assent is an act of volition as Augustine so broadly hinted, the
radical distinction between will and intellect, necessary if one is to
command and the other to obey, falls away. This bears also on the
simplicity of the divine nature and will be referred to again in the last
chapter.

The primacy of the intellect, then, cannot be a power automatically
exercised over the volition regarded as a separate faculty. This would
violate the unity of the person. Instead of the phrase the primacy of the
intellect, the essential idea might better be expressed as the primacy of
truth. And the primacy is one of authority rather than of psychological
power. The older forms of expression generate an old perplexity dating
from the Platonic dialogues. On the assumption that the intellect dominates
the will, it would follow that no one does wrong knowingly. All evil is due to
ignorance, and education guarantees correct conduct. The ambiguities
hidden in this apparently simple language are enormous. But if we speak of
the primacy of truth, we can avoid, even if we do not solve, these
perplexities. The primacy of truth will mean that our voluntary actions
ought to conform to the truth. Obviously sometimes they do not. If it is
true that worshiping God is good, we ought to worship him. Perhaps we
choose not to worship God, but the truth is superior in right to our will.
This way of putting the matter extends as well to the voluntary choice of

belief. We may choose to believe a truth, or we may choose to believe a
lie. Both types of choice actually occur. But the primacy of truth means
that we ought to believe the truth and we ought not to believe the lie.

It was no doubt the complicated psychological condition of choosing to do
wrong that led Hodge to restrict his primacy of the intellect to man's
original state of righteousness before the fall. The psychological conditions
of choosing evil, as even secular philosophers have discovered, are
exceedingly intricate. As the Scripture says, the heart of man is deceitful
above all things, and it is exceedingly corrupt: Who can know it? This
raises a most important point, the fact of sin, which so far has not been
brought into the argument.

Any discussion of man's mind and powers, to be at all Biblical, must take
into account the effects of sin. Calvin, Hodge, and Machen were keenly
aware of this. They all knew that the entrance of sin into man's life altered
his disposition as immediately created. In speaking of the intellectual
approach to Christianity, Machen says, "there is nothing wrong with the
method itself. ..but the trouble lies in the application of the method.... If you
take account of all the facts, you will be convinced of the truth of
Christianity; but you cannot take account of all the facts if you ignore the
fact of sin.' T 121

In another place, he explains his meaning a little more clearly:

That does not mean that we finite creatures can find out God by our
own searching; but it does mean that God has made us capable of
receiving the information which he chooses to give.... So our reason is
certainly insufficient to tell us about God, unless he reveals himself;
but it is capable (or would be capable if it were not clouded by sin) of
receiving revelation when once it is qiven. f 131

The effect of sin, though hardly mentioned before the last two
paragraphs, cannot be excluded as a factor in this discussion. There is
some evidence that those who disparage the intellect do so because of a
superficial view of sin. Man as a unitary personality, man as a whole, is
depraved. If any doctrine is plainly taught in Scripture, it is the Calvinistic
doctrine of total depravity. Sin affects man in his every part. But those who
make religion an emotion and discount intellect deny or at least dilute the
terrible Biblical words of condemnation. They wish to reserve a part of
man's nature pure and undefiled. Therefore, they make religion a matter of

emotion because the emotions are supposed to be sinless, whereas the
intellect is corrupt. Thus anti-intellectualism is combined with a denial of
the unity of the person.

This is not to say that all fundamentalists deny the effect of sin on the
emotions. And even when these views are entertained, they are not usually
expressed in such pointed language. The summary of the last paragraph
may be called an exaggeration. It is to be admitted also that frequently
these implications are no more than semi-conscious. This would explain
why sometimes an explicit statement of them draws forth a heated denial.
Nonetheless, there are instances where the emotions are given a privileged
position. How else is the following material to be understood?

The Rev. John R. W. Stott of London has published a booklet titled
Fundamentalism and Evangelism. In a paragraph defending the emotions, he
rather clearly equates the heart with the emotions, when he says, "Jesus
told us to love the Lord our God with all our heart as well as with our
mind" (28); and in the next sentence he distinguishes between the mind,
the heart, and the will. From page 20 to page 28 he repeatedly says that
the mind is finite, fallen, hardened, blinded, and darkened. Now, this is
perfectly true, and there are other truths that Mr. Stott asserts. But it is
most significant, after all those condemnations of the intellect, to find that
he says not one word against the emotions. So far as he expresses himself,
we are at liberty to conclude that all the emotions are pure and holy. It
would seem, therefore, that anti-intellectualism, at least as expressed by
some fundamentalists, has a tendency to split the personality and to
minimize the seriousness of sin.

But this is not Christianity. Christianity includes the primacy of the
intellect and the sovereign claims of truth. There is no antithesis between
the head and the heart, no depreciation of intellectual belief. Christianity
cannot exist without the truth of certain definite historical propositions. To
deny the truth of such propositions or to call them symbols of some
mystic experience is not Christianity. On the contrary, by faith we
understand that God created the universe; by faith we assent to the
proposition that God is a rewarder of those that diligently seek him; by
faith we know that Jesus rose from the dead.

The judgment of the Catholic Encyclopedia as quoted near the beginning
of this section is ambiguous. If it meant to say that some "Non-Catholic
writers have repudiated all idea of faith as intellectual assent," it states the

unpleasant truth. If, however, it meant to insinuate that all "Non-Catholic
writers have repudiated all idea of faith as intellectual assent," it is
mistaken. For Reformed theologians will ever assert that if the creedal
propositions are untrue, and if truth has no claim upon our assent, then
Christianity would not be worth its hypocritical propagation.

Definition of Reason

Sufficient Biblical grounds have now been given to justify the intellectual
character of faith. From this side of the question, therefore, antagonism
with reason is no longer to be expected. What now remains is a definition
of reason that will remove antagonism from the other side of the
antithesis. The clarification of the nature of faith was undertaken in
reference to the distortions of fundamentalism; the clarification of reason
envisages the secular accusations that Christianity is unreasonable or
irrational. For example, An Introduction to Modern Philosophy, by Alburey
Castell, in introducing the Thomistic arguments, correctly distinguishes
between natural theology and revealed theology. But frequently thereafter
the author describes natural theology as rational theology, and the student
receives the impression that revealed theology is irrational. Sometimes also
the charge that Christianity is irrational comes from those that profess to
be religious. They may even appeal to revelation. But, not to repeat the
discussion of Neo-orthodoxy, in such cases religion and revelation are
founded on common experience, so that supernatural revelation still appears
irrational.

As an example, the religious philosophy of the late Edgar Sheffield
Brightman will serve. Reason, for Brightman,

is the body of most general principles used by the mind in organizing
experience.... Revelation is not the body of most general principles
used by the mind. Revelation must be tested by reasonableness, not
reasonableness by revelation... it is not a criterion of truth, but
presupposes a criterion by which it is judged.£14]

[Rjeason - concrete and inclusively empirical, not merely abstract
and formal - is the supreme source of religious insiqht. r 151

In opposition to this, Christianity should refuse to define reason as a

body of general principles empirically obtained. Brightman's faith in a
concrete empirical body of general principles is a misplaced faith. The
history of Rationalism and its outcome in irrationalism show that no such
body of principles can be obtained. Indeed, it is significant that Brightman
himself was unable to state these principles. In one place, £16] he seems to
try by offering a definition of reason in nine norms; but the norms he
specifies, instead of being empirical, rather clearly resemble the so-called
formal logic he elsewhere sets aside. f 171 Brightman was therefore unable
to apply his theory.

Since all attempts to obtain knowledge apart from revelation have failed,
the Christian, in the next place, need only contradict Brightman's
unsupported contention that experience cannot be judged by principles
derived from revelation. The psychologists of today emphasize guilt and
fear; the Existentialists confront man with death. Cannot these experiences
be understood in the light of information God has revealed? This revelation
need not be tested - in fact, cannot be tested - by reasonableness in
Brightman's sense of the word, for Brightman's reasonableness does not
exist.

Finally, since the accusation of unreasonableness fails because the
philosophies that make it collapse into skepticism, the Christian now need
only identify reason with that which Brightman called abstract and formal.
Brightman's terms in this connection are a little unfortunate, and the next
chapter will show that the modern theory of logical formalism is not to be
adopted. Nonetheless, reason may well be defined as logic. It should not be
indentified with experience. When a Christian theologian is deducing
consequences from Scriptural premises, he is reasoning - he is using his
reason. To require him to test Scripture by sensation in order to avoid the
charge of irrationality is itself irrational prejudice.

With this conception of reason there no longer remains any conflict
between reason and faith. The futility of Rationalism and the insanity of
irrationalism are equally avoided. Truth becomes obtainable. And this, we
believe, should constitute a strong recommendation for Christian revelation.

[1] Burtt, Types of Religious Philosophy, 454. First edition.

[2] David S. Clark, Syllabus of Systematic Theology, 62.

[3] See the author's Thales to Dewey, The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark,
217-221.

[4] Charles Hodge, Systematic Theology, I, 211.

[5] Spinoza, Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, chapter IV.

[6] Anyone unconvinced by this brief account must read the first dozen
pages of Part I of Berkeley's Principles of Human Knowledge.

[7] The next few paragraphs follow Edward Caird, Hegel, 134ff.

[8] This is argued in brilliant detail in The Phenomenology of Mind, chapters
1-3.

[9] Mystic Theology, 1:1.

[10] Charles Hodge, Systematic Theology, II, 99.

[11] 1 Gresham Machen, What Is Faith? 26. See also 49, 51.

[12] J. Gresham Machen, What Is Faith? 130.

[13] J. Gresham Machen, What Is Faith? 51.

[14] Religious Values, 21-22.

[15] A Philosophy of Religion, 192.

[16] Nature and Values, 106.

[171 For a more complete discussion, see my A Christian View of Men and
Things, The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark, 153-190, 207, 213.

Inspiration and Language

T he conclusion of the previous chapter was the thesis that revelation is
needed as the basis of a rational worldview. In the study of religion, and
generally in modern philosophy, attempts to establish truth without a word from
God have resulted in a frustrated irrationalism 11 Hence constructive thought
must presuppose information that has been divinely given. This is to assume that
the Bible is the Word of God; and since God cannot lie, his Word must be the
truth. Obviously this raises the problem of verbal inspiration. The first part of this
chapter will give some of the older background of this subject. More recently,
inspiration and revelation have been discussed from the standpoint of the
possibilities of language. Is language a fit instrument for revelation? Such a
question requires a twofold discussion. First, there is the study of language, its
nature, its origin, its possibilities, and its relation to inspiration. This is a topic of
importance in its own right. Then, second, there is the question of method. Can it
be successfully maintained that divine revelation, as the presupposition of all
knowledge, offers a solution to the problems of language?

The Biblical Claims

The inspiration of the Scriptures, bearing as it does on the truth and
authority of the Word of God, is of such obvious importance to Christianity
that no elaborate justification is needed for discussing the subject. Indeed,
it is even pardonable to begin with some very elementary material (not only
pardonable, but in fact indispensable). No discussion of inspiration can
contribute much of value without taking into account the elementary
Scriptural data. These data must be kept in mind. Yet, unfortunately, a
number of these details have faded from our aging memories. More
unfortunately, the younger generation by and large has never learned the
Scriptural data. In the last two or three centuries Christianity has suffered
a slow but steady decline, and at present the theological standards of most
seminaries are so low that the rich detail of Presbyterianism and
Puritanism is never presented to the students. Therefore, first of all, some
simple statements must be made about the doctrine of inspiration as it
was commonly explained a hundred years ago.

It was in 1840 that Louis Gaussen published his famous little book
Theopneustia. Gaussen was a Swiss theologian who, like J. Gresham Machen
in this century, was deposed from the ministry and driven out of the

church, not because of unbelief, but because of his adherence to the truth
of the Scriptures. And his book Theopneustia is a defense of inspiration. In
it Gaussen amasses the astounding amount of material that the Scriptures
have to say about themselves. And although that was more than a century
ago, no one should approach the question of inspiration without a good
knowledge of Gaussen's work, or at least without a good knowledge of what
the Bible has to say about itself.

Gaussen opens his survey of the Scriptural data by quoting the well-
known verse, "All Scripture is given by inspiration of God." Here his
pertinent observation is, "This statement admits of no exception;... it is all
that is written; meaning thereby the thoughts after they have received the
stamp of language." Then he proceeds to support this assertion with a
tremendous number of references.

For example, Gaussen lists ten instances of phrases such as, "The mouth
of the Lord has spoken," and "The Lord has spoken." Only slightly different
are other references which say, "1 will open your mouth to speak in their
midst," and "The Spirit of the Lord spoke by me, and his word was on my
tongue." Or, again, "The Word of God came to Shemaiah," "the Word of God
came to Nathan," "the Word of God came to John," "the Word that came to
Jeremiah from the Lord." Beyond these there are the instances where it is
said, "The Lord put a word in Balaam's mouth;" "I will be with your
mouth;" "Lord... who by the mouth of your servant David have said;" and
"this Scripture had to be fulfilled, which the Holy Spirit spoke before by the
mouth of David concerning Judas."

One should note well that the Spirit-given message is not merely the
general idea of the passage, but rather the very words.

Deuteronomy 18:18-19 I will raise up for them a Prophet. ..and I will
put my words in his mouth.. .and.. .whoever will not hear my words
which he speaks in my name, I will require it of him.

Jeremiah 1:9 Then the Lord put forth his hand and touched my
mouth; and the Lord said to me, "Behold, I have put my words in your
mouth."

That the words themselves are inspired may be seen also from the
manner in which Jesus Christ used the Bible. Consider, for example, the

Lord's reply to the Sadducees who denied the resurrection of the body. How
does he refute them? By one sole word from an historical passage; by a
single verb in the present tense, instead of the same verb in the past
tense. "You are mistaken," he said, "not knowing the Scriptures.... Have you
not read what was spoken to you by God saying, 'I am the God of
Abraham'!" God on Mt. Sinai, four hundred years after the death of
Abraham, said to Moses, not "I was," but, "I am the God of Abraham."
There is a resurrection, then, for God is not the God of a few handfuls of
dust, the God of the dead: He is the God of the living. Those men therefore
are still alive, and Christ has based the argument on a single word.

A few verses later, the Lord asked the Pharisees about the divine nature
of the expected Messiah. Here likewise, to prove his point, he insists on the
use of a single word in Psalm 110. If the Messiah be the son of David, said
Christ, "how then does David in the Spirit call him 'Lord'?" Here Christ
emphasizes the fact that David used this word through the guidance of the
Holy Spirit.

There is space for only one more reference to show that Christ asserted
the divine authority of the words of the prophets, and his own words too. It
is the statement of our Lord himself: "If you believed Moses, you would
believe me; for he wrote about me. But if you do not believe his writings,
how will you believe my words?" (John 5:46-47).

The effect of Gaussen's quotations and arguments is cumulative. Page
follows page. Even to one who thinks he knows the Bible fairly well, it is a
surprise to see how frequently and how emphatically the Bible speaks of
itself. One ought to read all of Gaussen's references and to note carefully
the significance of each. Only so can one see how pervasive the doctrine of
inspiration is.

The last reference also takes us one step further into this elementary
material. Someone in ignorance might object that even though God gave the
prophets his words and made them speak, the speaking has ceased these
thousands of years, and we have only reports of the speeches. The claim is
thus made that the Bible is not a revelation so much as it is the record of
a revelation. This question, concerning the relation of the spoken word to
the written word, was answered by Christ implicitly in the previous
references, but explicitly in this last one. Note carefully, our Lord says that
Moses "wrote about me [and] if you do not believe his writings, how will
you believe my words?"

When the words that God gave his prophets are written, they become
The Writings, i.e., the Scriptures. It is the Scriptures, the Writings, that
Jesus tells us to search for eternal life. In his temptation, Jesus repels
Satan by saying "It is written." Also in John 6:45, 8:17, 12:14, 15:25, the
phrase "It is written" settles the points at issue.

Permit a final reference to one more exceptionally important passage. In
John 10:34-35 Jesus is defending his claim to Deity. He quotes Psalm 82.
Does he quote this Psalm because Psalm 82 is more inspired and more
authoritative than any other passage in the Old Testament? Not at all. He
says, "Is it not written in your law?.... and the Scripture cannot be broken."
Christ here has appealed to Psalm 82 because it is a part of the Scripture;
and since all Scripture is given by inspiration of God, this passage is also
inspired, for the Scripture cannot be broken.

Let it be repeated that the effect of this evidence is cumulative. One
should have in mind the hundreds of instances in which the Bible claims
plenary and verbal inspiration. This doctrine of inspiration is not something
tenuously deduced from two or three isolated verses. On the contrary, it is
the explicit, the repeated, the constant, the emphatic declaration of the
Bible in all its parts.

Now, to conclude this survey of elementary detail, a pointed question
must be put. If the prophets who spoke, if the authors who wrote, and if
our Lord himself are mistaken about verbal inspiration - if they are
mistaken these hundreds of times - what assurance may anyone have with
respect to the other things they said and wrote? Is there any reason to
suppose that men who were so uniformly deceived as to the source of their
message could have had any superior insight and accurate knowledge of
man's relation to God? Still more pointedly: Can anyone profess a personal
attachment to Jesus Christ and consistently contradict his assertion that
the Scriptures cannot be broken?

The Dictation Objection

Since this elementary and abbreviated account of verbal inspiration has
been based on a volume of a century ago, the next step, before bringing
matters completely up-to-date, will be the examination of a century-old
objection.

The idea that God gave his words to the prophets seems to many liberals
a mechanical and artificial theory of revelation. God, they tell us, is not to

be pictured as a boss dictating words to his stenographer. And further, the
writings of the prophets show clearly the freedom and spontaneity of
personal individuality. Jeremiah's style is not that of Isaiah, nor does John
write like Paul. The words are obviously the words of John and Jeremiah,
not of a boss dictating to several stenographers. The stenographers of one
boss will turn out letters of the same literary style; they do not correct his
English. Now, therefore, if God dictated the words of the Bible, the personal
differences could not be accounted for; from which it follows that the
doctrine of verbal inspiration is untrue.

In answer to this objection, it is useful to note that the liberals rather
uniformly misrepresent the doctrines they attack. This is true, not only of
the doctrine of the verbal and plenary inspiration of the Bible, but of many
other doctrines as well. Psychologically, it is not surprising that some
misunderstanding should occur. It is difficult to state accurately a position
with which one strongly disagrees. Yet, when the misunderstanding has
been publicly pointed out and still no correction is made, it begins to seem
that misunderstanding has changed into misrepresentation. Accordingly, the
first and indispensable step in making a reply is to show clearly what does
and what does not belong to the doctrine of the verbal inspiration. This has
been done often enough before, but to leave the opponents with still less
excuse, it will be repeated again here.

Now let us keep certain facts clearly in mind. In the first place, the
differences in style - and they are so obvious that even a translation
cannot obscure them - show decisively that the Bible was not dictated as a
boss dictates to his stenographer. There have indeed been several
theologians who have used the term dictation, and a very small number
seem to have regarded the process as similar to modern office procedure.
But others did not. Calvin, for instance, several times speaks of dictation,
but his commentaries show that he was clearly aware of differences in
literary style. Obviously he meant dictation in the more general sense of a
command and an authoritative imposition. What is chiefly to the point is
that the great majority of theologians who hold and have held to verbal
inspiration never accepted the mechanical dictation theory as described by
modernists. B. B. Warfield, in The Inspiration and Authority of the Bible,
writes, "It ought to be unnecessary to protest again against the habit of
representing the advocates of verbal inspiration as teaching that the mode
of inspiration was by dictation." [2] And later he wrote,

It is by no means to be imagined that it is meant to proclaim a
mechanical theory of inspiration. The Reformed Churches have never
held such a theory; though dishonest, careless, ignorant or over-eager
controverters of its doctrine have often brought the charge. Even those
special theologians in whose teeth such an accusation has been
oftenest thrown (e.g., Gaussen) are explicit in teaching that the human
element is never absent.[3]

On a number of occasions and on a number of topics, it has been my
experience that liberal theologians misunderstand, misrepresent, and even
misquote the orthodox authors. Now, an occasional mistake should be
overlooked; even a number of unrelated mistakes cannot be judged too
harshly; but when the doctrine of verbal inspiration is so constantly
misrepresented, one is tempted to suppose that the unbelievers found it
easier to ridicule dictation than to understand and discuss verbal inspiration
as it is actually taught by Reformed theologians.

How then are the differences of style to be accounted for, and what does
verbal inspiration mean? The answer to these questions, involving the
relation between God and the prophets, takes us quickly away from the
picture of a boss and a stenographer.

When God wished to make a revelation, at the time of the exodus or of
the captivity, he did not suddenly look around as if caught unprepared and
wonder what man he could use for the purpose. We cannot suppose that he
advertised for help, and when Moses and Jeremiah applied, God constrained
them to speak his words. And yet this derogatory view underlies the
objection to verbal inspiration. The relation between God and the prophets is
totally unlike that between a boss and a stenographer.

If we consider the omnipotence and wisdom of God, a very different
representation emerges. The boss must take what he can get; he depends
on the highschool or business college to have taught the stenographer
shorthand and typing. But God does not depend on any external agency. God
is the creator. He made Moses. And when God wanted Moses to speak for
him, he said, "Who has made man's mouth?... Have not I, the Lord?"
Therefore verbal inspiration, like every other particular doctrine, must be
understood in connection with the complete system of Christian doctrine. It
may not be detached therefrom, and a fortiori it may not be framed in an
alien view of God. In particular, verbal inspiration can be more clearly

understood - and can only be properly understood - in its relation to the
Presbyterian, the Reformed, the Calvinistic doctrines of the divine decree,
providence, and predestination. When the liberals surreptitiously deny
predestination in picturing God as dictating to stenographers, they so
misrepresent verbal inspiration that their objections do not apply to the
Calvinistic viewpoint. The trouble is not, as the liberals think, that the boss
controls the stenographer too completely; on the contrary, the analogy
misses the mark because the boss hardly controls the stenographer at all.

Put it this way: God from all eternity decreed to lead the Jews out of
slavery by the hand of Moses. To this end he so controlled history that
Moses was born at a given date, placed in the water to save him from an
early death, found and adopted by Pharaoh's daughter, given the best
education possible, driven into the wilderness to learn patience, and in every
event and circumstance so prepared that when the time came, Moses'
mentality and literary style were the instruments precisely fitted to speak
God's words.

It is quite otherwise with dictation. A boss has little control over a
stenographer except as to the words she types for him. He did not control
her education. He cannot trust her literary style. She may be totally
uninterested in his business. They may have extremely little in common.
But between Moses and God there was an inner union, an identity of
purpose, a cooperation of will such that the words Moses wrote were God's
own words and Moses' own words at the same time.

Thus, when we recognize that God does his will in the army of Heaven
and among the inhabitants of the Earth, when we understand that God
works all things after the counsel of his own will, when we see God's
pervading presence and providence in history and in the life of his servants,
then we can realize that business office dictation does not do justice to the
Scriptures. The Holy Spirit dwelt within these men and taught them what to
write. God determined what the personality and style of each author was to
be, and he determined it for the purpose of expressing his message, his
words. The words of Scripture, therefore, are the very words of God.

Contemporary Theories

This brief and hasty survey of earlier discussions is intended merely as
historical background for an examination of the contemporary state of
affairs. Things have changed, and changed considerably. With the decline of

Ritschlian Liberalism and the rise of Existentialism, Neo-orthodoxy, and
Logical Positivism, the opponents of verbal inspiration have shifted their
attack. It is no longer whether the words of the Bible are the words of God
or merely the words of fallible men. Today a more sweeping objection is
made on the basis of a general theory of language. Philosophers have
become interested in semantics; and some of their views would so alter
the significance of words that with all the verbal inspiration imaginable, the
Bible would be emptied of its Christian meaning. The philosophy of language
as developed by scholars who are not particularly interested in any religion
is not specifically directed against the inspiration of the Bible; but, since a
general theory of language includes religious language and affects the total
philosophy of religion, it sweeps inspiration along with all the rest. The
most prominent, though not the most profound, result of this influence is
the idea that all religious language is metaphorical or symbolic. No religious
statement should ever be understood literally. In the following pages, a few
examples of this theme will be given, accompanied by an admixture of
criticism; and then the discussion will turn to the more profound
implications of the general theory of language.

Religious Language

As a first example, and particularly to show the present popularity of
these ideas, two articles may be selected from the same issue of The
Christian Scholar, published by the Commission on Christian Higher
Education of the National Council of Churches. In the issue of September
1955, Geddes MacGregor has an article titled "The Nature of Religious
Utterance," and John A. Hutchinson writes on "The Religious Use of
Language." Their common point of view rather than any minor differences
they may manifest is what concerns the present argument.

MacGregor opens with Benedetto Croce's assertion that "all language is
metaphorical, or none is"; and soon follows with Wilbur Marshall Urban's
rejection of literalism and his conclusion as to "the inevitably metaphorical
and symbolic character of all language." MacGregor does not wish to be
held to the position of Croce and Urban altogether, but he seems to accept
the thesis that all religious language is metaphorical or symbolic. If this be
so, religious utterances must be evaluated in a very different manner from
the usual analysis of logical propositions.

In support of his position MacGregor gives some examples, and it will be

our duty to determine whether or not these admitted cases require his
conclusions. First, he refers to a college choir whose Jewish, Unitarian, and
Quaker members, majoring in political science or anthropology, were singing
a medieval hymn. Few if any of them understood the concepts of the hymn,
and yet their words communicated the concepts to those persons in the
audience who had the proper understanding. Similarly, a child does not
understand marriage when he reads the last sentence of a fairy tale.

These examples, especially the second, are supposed to militate against
a literal understanding of language because not even all adults have the
same understanding of marriage. This word has "levels" of meaning; some
words have many levels, others fewer. But if all words have several levels,
there can be no literal meaning.

However, it does not seem that MacGregor's examples prove what he
intended. Obviously, a child knows little about marriage, and no adult knows
all. It is also true that many adults know only a few of the theorems that
may be truly asserted of a triangle. But the ignorance of these theorems
does not entail an ignorance of the definition of triangle nor of some of the
simpler theorems. The same is true of marriage. Such an example
therefore does not prove that there is no literal meaning whatever to these
words.

Another illustration that MacGregor gives is that of a very ordinary
preacher preaching a very ordinary sermon. Yet this dull sermon or a
sentence of it becomes a vital message to someone in the congregation,
and his life is changed. Once again the words conveyed more meaning than
the speaker intended, and hence, argues MacGregor, the meaning could not
be literal. But why not? Could not the literal meaning of a sentence or two
recall themes that had lain dormant in the hearer's mind? Could not even
the literal meaning point out a new way of life? How can such an instance
be made to show that all religious language is metaphorical or symbolic?

Finally, the author asserts that the theological proposition "God is
omniscient" is never as satisfactory as the liturgical statement, "0 my
God, thou knowest all things." For MacGregor, religious utterance "is always
in the second person singular."

Now, it seems to me, this last notion is obviously false. There are
libraries full of religious books written in the third person. Systematic
theologies, church histories, books on pastoral methods are all written in
the third person, and they are religious books. Incidentally, the Bible is

largely in the third person: "Who himself bore our sins in his own body on
the tree." Of course, the third-person sentence and the second-person
sentence that MacGregor happened to choose are not precisely equivalent.
But the difference does not stem from the person of the verb. If the author
had written the first sentence as "My God is omniscient," he would have
had a third-person sentence which is the exact equivalent of the second-
person phrase. It may not be a "satisfactory" mode of address, for it is not
a mode of address at all; but this is not to say that it is not satisfactory
for a creedal statement. Whatever may be the difference between second
and third-person verbs, it is not at all clear why second-person verbs must
be metaphorical rather than literal. If, therefore, one wishes to maintain
that all religious language is metaphorical, it would be better to appeal to a
general theory of language than to such examples as these.

The Hutchinson article in the same periodical develops the theory
somewhat more clearly and more profoundly. The thesis is that "religion in
all its range and variety consists of symbols." This would mean that
Christ's death on the cross, Paul's activity in writing the Epistle to the
Romans, and my reading Romans are nothing but symbols. Where
MacGregor had hesitated, Hutchinson says expressly that "all language is
metaphorical.... Every common noun is a kind of dead metaphor. But
religious terms or words are metaphorical in a further and distinctive
sense." To support his view, Hutchinson sketches a religious epistemology
which is based on images - a sort of mental idolatry - and which is
assimilated to art and mythology. God always (note the always) speaks to
man through images, and "religious experience is a process of being hit by
such images."

This type of epistemology will be alluded to later on; but here I only wish
to say that while Hutchinson may be describing his own religious
experience, he is not describing mine. His sweeping generalization is simply
not true to fact 141

One objection, however, Hutchinson feels obliged to answer. If myth is
unavoidable in religion, some explanation is required as to the choice of
myths. One person chooses Greek mythology; another Christian mythology.
Doubtless such choices are often made unreflectively, but Hutchinson thinks
that it is possible to make a rational choice of myths. The basis of such a
choice is the adequacy of the myth to explain the facts of existence as we
confront them in daily life and action.

It seems, however, that neither this nor any other attempt to justify a
choice among myths can be successful. If myths were literal truths, one
might be more adequate than another. The Greek myth of Zeus' method of
producing rain might be considered more adequate or less adequate than
the myth about the windows of Heaven, attributed to the Hebrews. But if
these stories are both mythological and symbolic, simply symbolic of the
literal fact that it rains, it is hard to judge what adequacy requires. A literal
statement from Aristophanes' Clouds might explain, but a myth explains
nothing.

Furthermore, if all language is symbolic, the myth could not be a symbol
of any literal truth; it would have to be a myth about a myth. For example,
what could the cross be a symbol of? The cross, as it appears in printers'
ink or sculpture, is no doubt the symbol of Christ's crucifixion; but can the
crucifixion itself be a symbol or metaphor of anything? The prima facie
meaning of statements about the crucifixion is literal. And if someone says
that religious language cannot be literal, there appears to be no rational
method of determining what the crucifixion is symbolic of. Is it
pessimistically symbolic of an inherently unjust universe, or is it symbolic
of the love of God? On what grounds could one decide, if nothing in the
account can be taken literally?

But suppose now that someone decides without rational grounds. Suppose
that the crucifixion, although it never occurred literally, were said to be
symbolic of God's love. Then we must ask, is it a literal truth that God
loves men, or is this symbolic, too? Obviously this must be symbolic too, if
all language is symbolic. And what is God's love symbolic of? No doubt it is
symbolic of another symbol, which is itself symbolic of another. How could
such a regress be of any value unless sometime, and the sooner the better,
we come upon a symbol that symbolizes a non-symbolic meaning?

So long as the discussion concerns rain and the windows of Heaven, it
might appear that nothing important is involved. But when the crucifixion is
swept in - and when terms such as ransom, justification, propitiation,
expiation, and reconciliation are treated as metaphors and figures of speech
[5] - the illusion of superficiality is dissolved. For from this sort of view it
may be and has been concluded that divine revelation cannot be a
communication of truth.

Doubtless the Christian reader is chiefly interested in a truthful revelation
and in the literal meaning of Biblical statements. Yet it would be a mistake

to suppose that educated Christians should not concern themselves with
the several secular theories from which the religious implications derive.
The preceding section on symbolism was given in connection with
somewhat superficial articles in a periodical. These popular accounts are
the mode in which more technical theories trickle down to the general
populace. Therefore, a more thoroughgoing examination of semantics or
linguistics must be undertaken. This is all the more proper because most of
the religious writers who make so much of myth and symbolism are
conscious of their dependence on the more general theories of language.
They may not be conscious of a still more general, a still more profound,
and much more radical theory of language. This new logic as it appears in
Logical Positivism and the philosophy of Analysis will be taken into account
at the end of this chapter. First, however, the discussion will continue with
language.

Linguistics

To begin with, it may be well to indicate roughly the nature of the
subject by asking some of the questions that need to be answered: What is
a word? How can sound be meaningful? Does thought exist before and apart
from language? How did language originate? Is language adequate for a
knowledge of reality, or is its nature such that it automatically distorts the
universe? Is all language symbolic and metaphorical, or are some sentences
strictly literal? These and similar questions give a preliminary idea of the
problem.

Let us choose as the starting point one phase of the origin of language.
The Bible makes a brief mention of the diversification of tongues, but the
origin of the previous single language is passed over in silence. Similarly,
outside the Bible, no historical information is available on the first
occurrence of speech. For this reason theories of the origin of language are
speculative conclusions based on more general philosophic principles.

Naturalism and Behaviorism

A theory common today holds that words originate in sense experience.
All words are supposed to have had originally a physical reference. Words
denoting relations are said to be primarily spatial. If a word is said to stand
for an object, the relation "standing for" is derived from positions in space;
similarly, a thought is in my mind as a chair is in a room; and what is

worse, for logic, the inclusion of one class in another, e.g., all mammals are
vertebrates, is also a spatial relationship.

If all words are primarily physical or sensuous, and if relations are
basically spatial, either language cannot properly apply to spiritual and non-
spatial subjects, or one must explain how the physical meaning can be
changed into a spiritual meaning. How can sensory experience give rise to
words for soul and God? Attempts have indeed been made to explain this
extension of language, and these attempts should not be prejudiced without
examination. At the same time, the physical origin of language is today
frequently put in a form that makes this extension extremely difficult and
in fact impossible.

Evolutionary theory is committed to tracing human language back to the
cries and grunts of animals. Then by slow, gradual, and unspecified
changes, these animal sounds eventually, after many centuries, become the
words of human language. Inasmuch as the individual steps in this process
have never been enumerated, it is hard to test the theory. It is all the
harder since in the first place the exact status of animal sounds is not too
clear. Parent birds give warning cries to their fledglings, and this can be
construed as an example of the indicative function of language. But the cry
probably does not indicate whether the danger is a hawk or a human being.
Perhaps it may be said that the cry means, Danger! or Look out!, and thus
some plausibility may be gained for the theory by assimilating the cry to a
word-sentence. But whatever the indicative function of such a cry may be,
it must be one that is extremely vague. Nothing descriptive of the object is
said. Note too the important fact that animal sounds are instinctive; they
remain the same in all countries where the species is found; they also
remain unchanged from generation to generation; whereas the words of
language do not.

If, nonetheless, it is possible to find some connection between animal
sounds and human speech, the theory under consideration has taken a form
in which instead of animal sounds developing into meaningful speech,
speech is reduced to the level of animals. Or, it may even be said, human
language is reduced below the level of cries and grunts, if these are
supposed to bear some conscious meaning. That is to say, evolutionary
behaviorism not only makes language physical and sensory in its origin, but
maintains it on the same level.

Leonard Bloomfield (International Encyclopedia of Unified Science, I, 1,

227) speaks of responding to sounds "in a kind of trigger effect." Four
pages later he says, "The scientific description of the universe... requires
none of the mentalistic terms because the gaps which these terms are
intended to bridge exist only so long as language is left out of account." He
then offers the choice of behaviorism, mechanism, operationalism, or
physicalism. In the continuation he further asserts, "Language bridges the
gap between the individual nervous systems" (233); and "Thinking is inner
speech" (235). Here, of course, "inner" is spatial.

To avoid all mentalistic terms, naturalism equates the meaning of a word
with the response of the organism; and the response is a physico-chemical
reaction caused by the total environment. Not only the word but its
meaning is a physical effect and in turn a physical cause. The word is not a
sign of a concept, nor is the meaning a mental picture that resembles the
object. Neither word nor meaning represents anything. The whole situation
is exhausted in a chain of physico-chemical causes and effects in which a
nervous system is one link. In animal behavior, when a robin sees a worm,
the "sign" of the worm is a physical modification of the robin produced by
light rays reflected by the worm.

Here one may wonder if the robin has a sign any more than the
supermarket's electric eye has when we approach it. And if this is the
case, could not an early form of language be found in the electric eye -
particularly if the door squeaked a bit? The behaviorist would doubtless
agree, but others have an uncomfortable feeling that there is a difference
between physical causation and the interpretation of signs. It is a
difference that cannot be expressed in the physical categories of space and
motion. A mind is needed. Beyond any motion there must be intellection. In
language the words or signs can occur, perhaps not apart from all
causation, but they operate in defiance of the regularities of physical
causation. What is the cause which causes us to use the word worm? We
may say worm when we see one, and in this case it might be claimed that
the light rays reflected from the worm produce the sound just as they
make the robin chirp. But it is not light rays that produce the same sound
when we choose the word worm for purposes of linguistic discussion. We
call worm a noun and remark that it can be the subject of a verb. Are
these remarks nothing but physical motions? Is the sound worm the
chemical effect equally of light rays and of a linguistic discussion? Is the
sound noun nothing but a physical effect of previous physics? Here the

behaviorist explanation can be accepted only on blind faith. No, not even on
blind faith, for faith is a mental istic term. It must be accepted on blind
physics. It happens, however, that my physics causes me to make other
sounds, such as the sounds mind and intellect. In particular the chemistry
of my body produces the sounds. The chemistry and physics of my larynx
are as good as the chemistry and physics of yours.

It is not the present purpose, however, to continue with a general
refutation of behaviorism or even to itemize all the objections to its theory
of language. At the moment the important point is that this theory of
language is not arrived at by an empirical study of language. No one has
ever seen "language bridging the gap between two nervous systems." No
one has ever isolated the causes which produce the word worm instead of
the word noun. In this respect behaviorism does not satisfy its criterion of
empirical verifiability. Instead of being based on a study of words, the
behavioristic theory of language is an implication from the general position
of naturalism. Though naturalism is worthy of discussion, the present
chapter will continue to be restricted as much as possible to questions of
language.

Eventually, of course, any theory of language will be based on some more
general worldview. References to and partial confirmation by linguistic
phenomena must be appealed to, but it seems improbable - indeed I wish
to insist that it is impossible - for a purely phenomenological argument to
place a theory of language beyond all doubt. However, some writers on
language and many of the theologians who discuss myth and symbols have
little to say about the more fundamental problems. What they say often
indicates clearly that they reject behaviorism. Sometimes they suggest an
alternative philosophy. Therefore, the next step in the argument must be a
few paragraphs on the symbolic theory of language as detached from any
behavioristic presuppositions.

The Symbolic Theory

One of the best and certainly one of the fullest accounts of the
philosophy of language is Wilbur Marshall Urban's Language and Reality. The
great length of his volume and the later modifications of views given
summarily on earlier pages make it impossible to do full justice to the
author's precise position. The quotations must be taken as they are, apart
from the complete context, simply as fairly faithful expressions of a

widely-held theory. Then, too, since the original motivation of this chapter
is the literal interpretation of Scripture, the details selected for
consideration will have to do with the literal use of language. Unlike some
of the writers already quoted, who hesitate to say that all language is
mythological, Urban definitely holds that language is never to be literally
understood.

There are no strictly literal sentences .[6]

Now strictly speaking, there is no such thing as literal truth in any
absolute sense, for there is no such thing as absolute correspondence
between expression and that which is expressed... and any expression in
language contains some symbolic element.JT]

Now, in the first place, it may be remarked, if there are no literal
sentences at all, the meaning of statements in the Bible is vitiated no more
than the meaning of statements in Caesar's Gallic Wars. "David was King
of Israel" and "All Gaul is divided into three parts" are on the same level.
They may both be called figurative, or symbolical, or metaphorical; but they
are both historical in exactly the same sense. If all language is symbolic,
the verbal inspiration of the Scriptures is in no more danger than the
correct interpretation of any other text.

However, to call all language symbolic seems to empty of all significance
the commonly recognized distinction between literal and figurative. Can one
approve a theory of language that denies this distinction? What then was
the reason for violating common usage?

Urban said, "there is no such thing as absolute correspondence between
expression and that which is expressed." Accordingly, in the second place,
one must ask whether there is absolute correspondence, and whether this
is required for literal meaning. The notion of correspondence is vague. In
one sense of the term, a photo corresponds to or looks like its object, but
no one supposes that a word corresponds to a thing in this way. Language
is not a picture of reality. The letters c-a-t do not look like the purring
animal. It is all the more true that words cannot possibly look like spiritual
realities, if such there be, for these are not visible entities. But in a non-
photographic sense a mathematical formula may be said to correspond to
the motion of a freely failing body. Could not this be an absolute

correspondence? Or, if the term absolute causes hesitation, could not such
a formula be or be understood as a literal assertion? Further, if the sound
cat is essentially an arbitrary sign of the animal, what more
correspondence could be desired?

In criticizing the view that words are arbitrary or conventional signs of
ideas and things, Urban several times appeals to an intuitive content in
words. Primitive words are supposed to imitate, in some way or other, the
things to which they refer. The word ache, derived from the sound ach, is
supposed to sound like a pain feels. While some people with lively
imaginations think that this is plausible, examples taken, not from one's
mother tongue, but from unknown languages, will remove the plausibility.
One of Urban's examples is ouatou and ouatou-ou-ou. He first gives the
meaning in English and then asks if the word does not sound like the thing.
If it did, that is, if there were an intuitive meaning in the sound, it should
be fairly easy to guess the meaning of the word before the English
translation is given. Now, among a million people someone might make a
lucky guess; but the others would almost surely fail. Did you recognize all
along that the two words mean stream and ocean?

On the other hand, if words are conventional signs, there can be absolute
correspondence - if anyone wishes to call it that - by stipulation. This is
seen most clearly in the terms that scientists deliberately coin. Volt and
ohm "correspond" completely to their referents. At any rate, when one says
that the electric circuit in the house is one of 110 volts, the language is
utterly literal. Aside from the technical terms of science, this is also true
of many common sentences. The words dog, chien, and Hund have no
intuitive content. They are mere signs. Therefore, when one says, "the dog
is black," one ordinarily expects to be taken literally. In such sentences
there is no symbolic element. And this is true also of "David wrote the
Psalms."

It must be admitted that Urban puts his finger on a serious difficulty in
the view that words are conventional signs. It is that a first convention
would be unintelligible. Communication would be impossible. The Biblical
Adam and Eve or the first two evolutionary savages could not have talked
to one another. Adam would have selected a sound for tree, Sun, or air, and
Eve would have had no idea what it referred to.

The difficulty of explaining communication has long been recognized. The
famous treatise of Augustine was preceded by the keen insight of Gorgias.

But the implausibility of intuitive content in words, the plausibility that they
are mere signs, plus the fact that even if some words had an intuitive
content it would not be of much help in solving the enigma of
communication, are persuasive reasons for not following Urban.

There is another phenomenon also, which, though it furnishes no
explanation of communication, effectively answers the objection to it. Even
if some primitive words had an intuitive content, the languages of today
have virtually none. Must not Urban himself admit that ninety-five percent
of all words are now conventional signs? Remember dog, chien, and Hund.
But infants learn to speak, and parents communicate with them. Not only
so, but adults also have learned the little-known languages of remote tribes
by living with them. These two miracles, the infant and the missionary, will
be better understood from Augustine's viewpoint than on a naturalistic
basis. But in any case the "absolute correspondence" of arbitrary signs to
referents remains, and literal sentences occur.

The attack on the possibility of literal sentences now continues by the
alleged discovery of an ambiguity in the term literal.

The term literal is ambiguous.... This may mean merely the opposite
of figurative, and the rendering of symbolic sentences into literal
sentences is equivalent to the expression of the figurative in non-
figurative fashion. But literal also has another meaning, namely,
primitive meaning. To interpret a symbolic sentence literally would
then be to interpret it according to the primary or original meaning of
the words. If literal be taken in this second sense, then to say that
expansion of a symbolic sentence is the substitution of a literal
sentence is wholly false. For the symbolic meaning is precisely not the
literal meaning. So interpreted the symbolic sentences, Napoleon is a
wolf... are false.[8]

This quotation betrays a great confusion, though the last half of it is
perfectly true. The source and explanation of the confusion may become
apparent a little later as his argument for the necessity of symbolism is
further developed; but the point of the confusion is obvious here. The
quotation does not in fact give two meanings of the term literal. Literal in
the sense of opposite to figurative does not differ from literal in the sense
of primitive meaning. Urban has taken for ambiguity in the term literal two
different procedures of interpreting figurative sentences. The example was,

"Napoleon was a wolf." The literal, non-figurative, primitive meaning of the
word wolf is of course a certain type of wild animal. To say that Napoleon
had four legs and a shaggy coat is of course false. But while the predicate
of the figurative sentence was not intended to be taken literally, the
intended meaning can be stated in literal language: Napoleon was a wanton
killer. And he was a wanton killer in the primitive and non-figurative sense
of the words. Granted that the interpretation of a figurative sentence
according to the primary and original meanings of the words results in a
false or absurd misunderstanding of the intended meaning; yet it does not
follow that the expansion of a symbolic sentence by the substitution of a
literal sentence is necessarily false, much less impossible. It is a question
of which literal words are chosen. It is not a question of ambiguity in the
term literal. The source and motivation of this confusion ties in the view
that

the symbol expresses adequately for our type of consciousness that which
could not be fully expressed in “literal” sentences.!^]

It is not true that whatever is expressed symbolically can be better expressed
literally. For there is no literal expression, but only another kind of symbol. HOI
The symbolic consciousness, as we have seen, is a unique form of the
cognitive consciousness. Oil

Thus to expand the symbol tends to defeat its end as a symbol .[12]

Another factor contributing to the confusion above is the opinion that
when the term literal is defined as primary meaning, "a literal sentence is
one which refers to a sensuously observable entity.... Applying this notion
of literal. ..to the language of morals and religion... all such language is
pronounced meaningless."[13] In order therefore to preserve some meaning
in religious language against the attacks of the Logical Positivists, Urban
believes that he is forced to his view of symbolism.

It is cheerfully admitted that Urban wishes to oppose those who would
deny all meaning to religious expressions. There is also a group that for
convenience we may call the Anglican group, though not all are Anglicans.
Antony Flew states that he is not a Christian at all. But most of them
seem to be Anglicans: E. L. Mascall, Basil Mitchell, Austin Farrer, I. M.
Crombie, Ian T. Ramsey, and others. These men have collaborated in the
publication of a series of books that defend religious language from the
charge of being meaningless, and they follow Urban at least in assigning a

sensory origin to language, which origin then sets the problem of developing
language from its sensory referents to its use in spiritual affairs. However,
one may ask why the idea of primary meaning must be equated with a
sensuously observable referent. On the principles of a naturalistic
evolutionary theory, which none of these men ought to accept, the motions
of magic and incantation may have been the primary sensuous meaning of
terms like spirit and God. But unless those savages had some prior notion
of a being to be invoked, unless they had a "mentalistic" idea of something
different from the ritual itself, it is difficult to understand why they would
have gone through the motions. Or, conversely, if they went through certain
motions only because of physical exuberance, it remains a mystery how the
idea of God could have developed from such athletics.

If, on the contrary, the idea of God is an innate endowment by the
Creator, and if the word God is an arbitrary sign of this spiritual referent,
and if perchance magic incantations are degenerate forms of pure original
worship, then both the motions and the language are easily explained. It is
much easier to see how in a degenerate religion a word of original spiritual
import can have come to be transferred to a physical object, just as idols
replace God, than it is to understand how words of sensuous reference only
can come to take on purely spiritual meaning. This alternate view must
now be considered.

Theistic Linguistics

A theory of language, since it is only one part of philosophy, must, as
was said above, depend on a more general worldview. In the case of the
behaviorists, this fundamental philosophy is consciously applied. In other
cases the underlying principles may be but dimly apprehended, and may
appear only as presuppositions to be discovered between the lines. It is
even possible that some writers with less perspicuity explicitly deny what
their theories implicitly assume. At any rate, every theory of language, and
every other special theory, depends on some set of ultimate principles. Let
us therefore choose Christian theism as our basis.

We shall suppose that God Omnipotent has created rational beings,
beings who are not merely physical but who are essentially spiritual and
intellectual; beings, therefore, who have the innate ability to think and
speak. What then will be the implications relative to the problems of
linguistics that can be drawn from this theistic presupposition?

For one thing, this view places thought behind language and so
contributes to the explanation of communication. Previous mention was
made of Augustine's De Magistro. Christ is the Logos or Reason who
endows every mind with intellectual light. Christian theologians, even the
poorer ones, have usually realized that in the moral sphere man is not born
neutral. "Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin my mother
conceived me." Men are not born morally good or morally neutral, but they
are born depraved. Intellectually, also, men do not come into the world with
blank minds. Inherited depravity only emphasizes the presence of innate
moral ideas. Those wicked Gentiles who did not want to retain God in their
knowledge nonetheless failed to banish him, for they continued to know the
judgment of God that those who commit such things are worthy of death.
In addition to moral ideas, Augustine teaches that the presence of Christ
the Logos endows all men with certain speculative or philosophic ideas as
well. Communication, therefore, becomes possible because all men have
these same ideas. The situation is somewhat like that of cryptographers
who can break any cipher. The symbols are at first unknown; but because
the ideas expressed are common, the message can be understood. If
language had no thought behind it, as the behaviorists claim, and if the
symbols were just a random aggregate of marks, there would be no cipher
to break.

It follows next that language cannot be assigned a solely sensory origin
and a primitively physical reference. Theism, of course, need not deny that
the names of animals and things refer to spatially perceived physical
objects; it need not deny that spatial relationships are well represented in
language; it need not deny or distort any of our common gross experience.
But it must assert that man's endowment with rationality, his innate ideas
and a priori categories, his ability to think and speak were given to him by
God for the essential purpose of receiving a verbal revelation, of
approaching God in prayer, and of conversing with other men about God and
spiritual realities. As a hymn says, "Thou didst ears and hands and voices,
For thy praise design." For this reason a theistic theory of language would
not labor under the burden of giving a precarious derivation or development
of spiritual meaning from primitive physical reference. The spiritual
meaning would be original. A dubious appeal to metaphor, symbolism, or
analogy to explain this transition would be unnecessary.

This point requires some extended explanation, for it needs to be shown

first that this theistic theory of language does not evade the problems by
denying the usefulness of metaphor and analogy; and second that the
Anglicans previously mentioned (with others who adopt the same outlook),
fail to achieve their end of maintaining the meaningful ness of religious
language; and that therefore in the third place, if their theories must be
discarded, the view of the last few paragraphs is at least a better
expedient.

First of all, it is admitted that religious language contains analogies,
metaphors, and figures of speech. Christ said, "I am the door." There are
also the parables which, sometimes obscurely, point to similarities between
sensory experience and religious principles. The Psalms most of all are
poetic and pictorial. Thus the existence of metaphor and symbolism cannot
be denied, nor shall it be argued that such language is in the least
inappropriate. However, these literary embellishments with their aesthetic
appeal and psychological impact are not to be construed as essentially
different from figures of speech in books of history or even fiction. To do
so is to create a pseudo-problem. Religious language is not essentially
different from language on other subjects of interest. The position here
maintained is not that religious language cannot utilize metaphor, but that
the meaning of these metaphors, when one knows enough theology, can be
stated less ambiguously in strictly literal sentences.

Some writers, as we have seen, deny this. E. L. Mascall, who makes
admirable criticisms of Logical Positivism, and who aims to defend the
meaningfulness of religious language, makes his task impossible by
accepting the admission of some Christian theologians that "there was
something very peculiar about theological assertions which sharply
differentiated them from the assertions of ordinary conversation....
unintelligible to the complete outsider. T 141 He also quotes Farrer with
approbation that "it is not necessary for us to get behind them [images] to
a non-metaphorical understanding of facts. The images themselves
illuminate us." And, "the metaphysician cannot point away from his
analogically expressed thought about the natural mysteries to some non-
analogical thought about them, which means all that the analogical thoughts
mean. He has not got any such non-analogical thouqht/ T 15]

This is the theme I wish particularly to repudiate. The idea of a special
and peculiar theological language essentially different from language used in
other subjects is, I believe, completely untenable. Of course, physics uses

technical terms such as proton and velocity; and in this sense we can
speak of the language of physics, just as the language of baseball talks
about curves, fouls, and umpires-who-should-be-killed. But these two
"languages" are simply parts of one language - English - and the same
rules of meaning apply in physics, baseball, and in "theological language" as
well.

Theology versus Language

Sometimes the allegation that religious language can never be literal and
must always be analogical is based on particular points of doctrine
improperly understood. For example, I. M. Crombie£16] considers creation
analogous to manufacture, but only analogous, not identical. In the case of
ordinary facts, like the manufacture of a chair or table, we know their
meaning when we understand a situation in which the facts would not be
true. But the theist, asserts Crombie, claims that there is no situation
which falls outside of divine creation. Therefore, the meaning of creation is
in doubt. We could never grasp the significance of statements about
creation unless the rules of theological language differ essentially from
those of ordinary language.

Here one might wonder what Crombie would have said if he had noted
that no chair or table falls outside the category of manufacture. At any rate
the theist can describe a situation, which of course he believes to be false,
in which creation would not be true. If physical reality had existed from
eternity, if the history of the world were not finite in time, then creation
would never have occurred. In order for an assertion to be meaningful, it is
not necessary that there exist situations in which it is true and other
situations in which it is false. Such a criterion of meaning would prevent
the assertion that water dropped into sulphuric acid produces a rise in
temperature. Nor on such a theory could two and two always equal four.
Meaningful ness does not depend on a statement's sometimes being false,
nor does falsity imply that a statement is meaningless. What is
meaningless can be neither true nor false.

Not only is Crombie's criterion of meaning doubtful, his notion of creation
also appears to be ambiguous. "The theist," he says, "does not pretend to
know how the world began; he only claims to know that, however it began,
God created it" (45). Crombie's statement here does not do justice to the
theist. Although the particular point to be criticized in this statement may

seem relatively unimportant - in fact some will think that the criticism
splits hairs - nevertheless the statement illustrates a tendency to confuse
a question of theology with a question of language. In ordinary language the
word how always refers to a process: How does one drive a car? How does
one carve a turkey? How does one solve an equation? The answers to these
questions all specify several steps in a process. Therefore, it is inaccurate
to say that "the theist does not pretend to know how the world began." The
theist pretends to know that there was no how. Creation excludes process.
Crombie's difficulty therefore does not lie in the usage of language, but in
the theological content.

An even less convincing example of language difficulty is given by Flew
and MacKinnon.£17] Their article argues that the first chapter of Genesis
cannot be literal because the word day obviously does not mean twenty-
four hours. But why should anyone suppose that the literal meaning of day
is twenty-four hours? The word day more frequently refers to a period of
twelve hours, more or less, distinguished from night. The one is as literal
as the other. And even if the authors insist that day in the sense of a
period of time, e.g., in my grandfather's day, is figurative, it is far from
proving that such language cannot be expressed literally. These authors
therefore are not convincing when a few pages later they insist, "I say
imaginative deliberately; for writing in the New Testament is poetry rather
than prose" (175). Now, perhaps the word day is figurative in Genesis, but
can anyone read Paul's epistle to the Romans and deny that it is prose?
Such desperate expedients do not commend the theory.

Sometimes, however, the allegation that religious knowledge can never be
literal, instead of being based on fairly evident misunderstandings, is
founded on very difficult points of doctrine, points which constitute serious
enigmas for a Christian theologian.

In the last book mentioned, Flew has a chapter on "Divine Omnipotence
and Human Freedom." In the main it is a very well written attempt to show
that the assertion of free will cannot solve the problem of evil, and as he
goes through his argument he well enough lays bare the difficulties of the
problem. There is, however, little connection with any theory of language.
The whole is strictly theological. And if studied from the standpoint of
theological content, its deficiencies are quickly seen. For, although the
chapter contains some fine analysis of free will, so far as other views on
the problem of evil are concerned, it contents itself with a mere expression

of distaste. For example, "All that we have to say in this paper is, of
course, entirely beside the point for anyone who adopts any variant of the
position that infinite creative Power is its own sufficient justification" (156).
Such a solution Flew merely calls "uncomfortable." Or, at most he says,
"All the bitter words which have ever been written against the wickedness
of the God of predestinationism - especially when he is also thought of as
filling hell with all but the elect - are amply justified" (163). This is not
argument; this is merely abuse; and it is unworthy of a scholar who wishes
to look at things logically. Admittedly, the existence of evil poses a major
difficulty for the Christian. And for this reason the last chapter of the
present book will argue through it in detail. Here the only point to be noted
is that a solution is not to be sought in rules of language but in the
concepts of theology.

The same is true of another matter. Again in the same volume by Flew
and MacIntyre, Bernard Williams gives an interesting defense of Tertullian's
famous paradox: It is certain because it is impossible. Williams argues that
religious language must include at least one sentence about both God and
the world. It may be that God punishes men or that God became flesh; but
there could hardly be any religion unless God is related to the world at least
in one aspect. Unfortunately, however, God is eternal and the world is
temporal; "so when we come to a statement that is about both God and
temporal events, it must be unsatisfactory; for if it were not, we should
have adequately described the relation of temporal events to God in terms
appropriate only to the temporal events" (203). Then Williams makes an
excellent point. If a religious person replies to this argument that religious
statements must be accepted by faith and not by reason, Williams shows
clearly that the reply is irrelevant:

If you do not know what it is that you are believing on faith, how
can you be sure that you are believing anything?... To say that it is to
be believed on faith and not by reason does not face the difficulty, for
the question was not how it should be believed, but what was to be
believed.£18]

The authors under discussion do not seem to take this point seriously
enough. Unless religious language is meaningful, literally true, and
thoroughly intelligible, it is meaningless and unintelligible, sound and fury
signifying nothing. Williams' point stands emphasis.

But to return to the relation between the immutable God and the
changing temporal events, perhaps it is Crombie who gets to the bottom of
the matter.

We must acknowledge at once that in the ordinary sense we have no
conception of the divine nature. We do not know God, and it would be
absurd to claim that we know what kind of a being he is. Insofar as
we use adjectives about him (omniscient, eternal, and so on) they do
not enable us to conceive what it is like to be God. Omniscience is not
infinite erudition, and what it is must be beyond our comprehension.
ri9i

Crombie is clearly aware that all this is more than a question of
language. Obviously it is necessary, if one wishes to defend theology
against the charge of meaninglessness, to provide an epistemology that will
permit man to have a knowledge of God. But the quotation just made would
appear to make a knowledge of God impossible. Even revealed knowledge
would be impossible, for we are said to have no conception of God or of
what kind of a being he is. Omniscience is an attribute beyond our
comprehension, and the adjectives we use have no ordinary sense. Yet the
author wishes to allow some meaning to theological statements. To this
end a special kind of language must be used. The assertion "God loves us,"
Crombie explains as a parable: "there is no literal resemblance between the
truth which is expressed and the story which expresses it"; but there must
be some "resemblance or analogy between, say, human and divine love."
[2Q1

Although we believe in the analogy, we do not use the analogy to
give a sense to "love" in the theological context. We postulate the
analogy because we believe the image to be a faithful image.... We do
not understand the relationship in which God stands to the world, but
we must also claim the right to name it "creatorship" or "sustaining."
The choice of the name is not arbitrary; although, since we do not
understand the relation named, its use is in one sense equivocal. [21]

This is highly unsatisfactory and falls completely within the scope of
Williams' remark that "if you do not know what it is that you are believing,
how can you be sure that you are believing anything?"

Trying to forestall criticism of his theory of parable or analogy, Crombie
remarks that his conclusions can be denied only if "(1) there can never be
good grounds for committing a category transgression, and (2) that there
can be no 'meanings' which do not correspond to clear and distinct
ideas .1221

One wonders how the mere statement of the only two conditions on
which Cromble's theory can be denied is sufficient to dispose of the
conditions. It seems so reasonable that one should avoid "category-
transgressions," i.e., logical blunders, that one cannot be satisfied with
simply brushing the principle out of sight. And while there may be some
meaning embedded in the language of a man whose ideas are not clear and
distinct, the meaning would surely prove to be an hallucination if it could be
shown that the words could not be made to correspond to some clear or
distinct ideas. Furthermore, how can one construct a parable that relates a
known object to something of which we have no concept at all? Meaningful
analogies and honest comparisons can be made only if we know something
about both terms. Unless a better defense of religious language and thought
can be devised, the Logical Positivists will not be greatly embarrassed.

Literal Language

The theistic theory of language that was outlined a few pages back is
here offered as a better solution to the whole matter. How it will apply to
Logical Positivism will be seen a little later, but how it applies to the theory
of metaphors and parables should already be clear. First of all, it provides
for a knowledge of God without which speech would be vain sound. The
Logos is the rational light that lights every man. Since man was created in
the image of God, he has an innate idea of God. It is not necessary, indeed
it is not possible, for a blank mind to abstract a concept of God from
sensory experience or to lift sensory language by its bootstraps to a
spiritual level. The theories of Empiricism, of Aristotle, of Aquinas, of
Locke, are to be rejected.

The positing of innate ideas or a priori equipment does not entail the
absurdity of infants' discoursing learnedly on God and logic. To all
appearances their minds are blank, but the blankness is similar to that of a
paper with a message written in invisible ink. When the heat of experience
is applied, the message becomes visible. Whatever else be added, the
important words refer to non-sens uous realities.

The impossibility of converting sensory language to spiritual use by

parable and metaphor arises from the necessity of knowing both items of
comparison before a comparison can be made. The metaphor or the parable
has meaning only if there is some similarity that can be stated in non-
metaphorical, literal language. When Crombie says, "we postulate the
analogy because we believe the image to be a faithful image," he
contradicts his previous statement: "we do not know God, and it would be
absurd to claim that we know what kind of a being he is." It seems obvious
that if we have no knowledge of God there would be no basis for choosing
the parable "God loves us" rather than the parable "God hates us."

The theory of metaphor, parable, or symbolism, as it holds that literal
language is impossible, naturally denies that the truths expressed in
metaphor can be expressed literally. Sometimes authors try to show that
poetry and symbolism lose value when attempts are made to state their
meaning in prose, and this failure in translation is taken as evidence for the
general theory of symbolism.

If, on the other hand, religious language can be literal, not only may
symbolism be translated into ordinary prose, but the symbols must be
regarded as less adequate - though perhaps more literarily beautiful -
expressions of the truth than the literal statements are.

Opposing any such suggestion, Urban, whose great work was quoted
earlier, writes,

In Whitehead's words, the symbol is merely a surrogate for
something else, and what we want is that something - not the
substitute. In other words, the ideal would be to dispense with
symbolism or to have wholly non-symbolic truth. This, it seems to me,
is a fundamentally mistaken notion. In the first place, such an ideal is
really impossible in view of the very nature of language and expression.
If there were such a thing as wholly non-symbolic truth, it could not be
expressed.[23]

Yet this that Urban considers "a fundamentally mistaken notion" seems
to others besides Whitehead to be fundamentally correct. Some hints have
already been given that such an ideal is not really impossible. One further
example will be given. It will be used as a basis for a reductio ad absurdum
of Urban's view, and it will be chosen from the Bible to bring the whole
discussion closer to the question of verbal inspiration than it may have
seemed to be in the last several paragraphs. Let us take the words of John

the Baptist, "Behold! The Lamb of God." The Lamb is a symbol. A symbol
is a sign, but not all signs are symbols. The plus and minus signs of
arithmetic, even though they may sometimes be called mathematical
symbols, are just arbitrary conventional signs. Marks of other shapes could
have served as well. Crombie above, it will be remembered, tried to
maintain that his words, names, and metaphors were not arbitrary; and in
this example obviously an elephant as a symbol of Christ could not have
served as well; and a fish was later used only because of an acrostic. John
the Baptist's choice of a Lamb was not arbitrary; it was rooted in the
Mosaic ritual. An arbitrary sign, whether a word or a mathematical figure,
merely designates the concept. When we are studying mathematics or
reading a newspaper, we do not normally think of the shape of the signs,
but rather give exclusive attention to the thing signified. In the case of the
symbol, however, some of our attention is fixed on the symbol. If the
Baptist had said, Jesus is Lord, no one would have given thought to the
sound as such; and there is nothing in the situation except the sound and
the meaning. But when he said, "Behold! The Lamb," the situation included
not only Jesus and the sound of the words, but also the lambs that the
word Lamb summarized. To understand the Baptist's message about Christ,
therefore, it was necessary to think how literal lambs could symbolize
Christ. This is not the case with a designatory sign.

John the Baptist expected his auditors to remember the sacrifices in
which the worshiping sinner had placed his hands on the head of the lamb,
killed the lamb, sprinkled the blood round about the altar, and burnt the
lamb on the altar. Because of these reminiscences, the Baptist's language
was vivid. He pictured the ritual of the ages. One word summarized an
entire religious system.

But is this symbol adequate? Does it express what cannot otherwise be
expressed?

Undoubtedly this symbolism was adequate to attract the attention of the
auditors. In doing so, it functioned more effectively than a literal lengthy
explanation. Symbolism and the more ordinary figurative expressions have
their use; and unless they were better adapted to their aim than other
language, they would cease to be used.

Yet, if the purpose is insight and understanding, symbolic language must
be recognized as seriously inadequate. If a missionary should repeat John's
words to people who had never heard of the Jews, the meaning would not

be conveyed. Even if one knew that the Jews killed lambs and went through
certain motions, one could hardly guess what John meant. First of all, literal
language is necessary to explain the significance of the Jewish sacrifices.
The death of the lamb represented the penalty of sin previously incurred by
the now repentant Jew. But though the man had incurred the penalty, the
penalty was discharged by a substitute, and God was satisfied.
Furthermore, the visible sacrifice was itself symbolic of a greater sacrifice.
There was some future event prophesied in which one whose visage was so
marred more than any man would be led as a lamb to the slaughter, by
whose stripes we are healed. Then centuries later, John the Baptist
announced, "Behold! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the
world." The lamb is a symbol of the vicarious satisfaction of justice.

Without such a background of literal meaning, one could hardly guess the
point of the symbol. One would not know what the symbol symbolized. The
symbol is merely a surrogate for something else, and what we want is the
real thing and not the symbol. To be sure, the lamb is not simply an
arbitrary sign, as the swastika was for the Nazis; but unless some literal
information was forthcoming, John's symbolic sentence could not have been
understood. With this information, it can be. And these remarks return us
to the analysis of John A. Hutchinson's article on "The Religious Use of
Language," near the beginning of this chapter. The reductio ad absurdum
then is complete.

On a theistic worldview therefore, a view which holds that God created
man and revealed himself to him in words, language is adequate for
theology. Linguistics, unless controlled by naturalistic, atheistic
presuppositions, can therefore offer no objection to the doctrine of verbal
inspiration. The Scriptures contain metaphors, figures of speech, and
symbolism; for the Scriptures are addressed to men in all situations -
situations in which their attention needs to be aroused and their memory
facilitated, as well as situations in which plain information must be
conveyed. But since symbolic language and metaphor depend on literal
meaning, the most intelligible and understandable expressions are to be
found in the literal theological statements, such as those in Romans. And
outside the Bible the most accurate and satisfactory expressions of
Christianity are the carefully worded creedal statements of the
Westminster Confession.

Logical Positivism

The majority of the authors so far quoted have been trying to defend
religious language from the accusation of the Logical Positivists that
religion and metaphysics are nonsense. These authors recognize that
Logical Positivism is an enemy of all religion; they wish to escape its
influence; and they have at times made keen criticisms of it. If their
alternate theory has failed, it is only because they have not sufficiently
stressed the literal concepts of non-arbitrary logic without which no theory
can be maintained and with which Logical Positivism is reduced to ruins.

Though the Anglican group does not stress logic sufficiently, there are
others who stress it even less, and who therefore show a greater, even if
unconscious, affiliation with the Logical Positivists. Emil Brunner is a good
example. One of his main points is that God "does not communicate
something to me, but himself." That is to say, revelation is not the
impartation of truth. "All words have only an instrumental value. Neither the
spoken words nor their conceptual content are the Word itself." And, "God
can.. .speak his Word to a man even through false doctrine." f241 Not only
does Brunner empty revelation of all conceptual content, he also accepts or
rejects inferences by subjective preferences. Jewett translates Die
christliche Lehre von Gott:

The purely rational element of thought in logic has the tendency to
proceed from any given point in a straight line. Faith, however,
constantly bridles this straight line development.... Theological thinking
is a rational movement of thought, the logical consequences of which
are constantly, at every point, through faith, turned back, curtailed, or
destroyed.... Only by the constant breaking of systematic unity and
logical consistency... does thought arise which may be designated as
believing thought.[25]

Thus, as Jewett goes on to show, Brunner accepts valid implications
when it suits his purpose to refute Schleiermacher; but when he finds
himself unable to refute the predestinationism of Calvin, he decides that
now he will have his faith bridle logic and will pay no attention to valid
implications. But if logical consistency can in this way be used in one case
and discarded in another, what is to prevent one from selecting a few ideas
from Buddhism, a concept or two from Islam, and a bit of nonsense from

Christian Science, too? After all, revelation is not a communication of truth,
and the conceptual content of the words is not the real thing. There is
therefore no law against contradicting oneself.

This repudiation of logic indicates that a fitting conclusion to this chapter
can be provided by a short discussion of the law of contradiction. Now, the
most vigorous opponents of immutable logic are today the Logical
Positivists, and to them we shall now turn.

Logical Positivism, or the philosophy of Analysis as it is sometimes
called, not only repudiates divine revelation but all non-empirical
metaphysics as well. In particular it denies any innate or a priori forms of
the mind, traditionally regarded as necessarily true. Logic and mathematics
are explained as linguistic conventions that have been arbitrarily selected;
or if not altogether arbitrarily, they have been selected as useful tools to do
a job. Past history exemplifies different selections. The logic of A. N.
Whitehead and Bertrand Russell is one, and the logic of Aristotle is another.
To quote A. J. Ayer, "It is perfectly conceivable that we should have
employed different linguistic conventions from those which we actually do
employ."

John Dewey in his Logic objects to the statement of H.W. B. Joseph that
"it is more in respect of the problems to be answered, than of the logical
character of the reasoning... that Aristotle's views are antiquated." Dewey
holds that logical forms arise from subject matter, and when the subject
matter changes sufficiently, logic changes too. He compares logic with legal
concepts. The concepts arise out of social conditions and change with
them. The laws of one age are not those of another. Similarly, we are led
to believe, the laws of logic are not fixed, but change with changing
conditions .[ 26 ]

Positivistic, humanistic, or atheistic as this philosophy is, it apparently
attracts Bible translators and even teachers in American Bible schools.
Recently an instructor in one of the well-respected Bible colleges published
an article in which, along, with what seemed to be a mechanistic theory of
sensation, he rejected Aristotelian logic as an unwarranted, unnatural
verbalization and accepted at least some of Dewey's Instrumentalism. This
sort of thing is seen also, though perhaps in a less conscious form and to
varying degrees, in the pietistic depreciation of a so-called human logic as
opposed to some unknowable divine logic.

In defense of so-called human logic, in defense of the literal meaning of

words, and therefore in defense of verbal inspiration, I wish to challenge
the opposing viewpoint to face the argument and answer unambiguously. I
wish to challenge them to state their own theory without making use of the
law of contradiction.

If logical principles are arbitrary, and if it is conceivable to employ
different linguistic conventions, these writers should be able to invent and
to abide by some different convention. Now, the Aristotelian logic, and in
particular the law of contradiction, requires that a given word must not only
mean something, it must also not mean something. The term dog must
mean dog, but also it must not mean mountain; and mountain must not
mean metaphor. Each term must refer to something definite, and at the
same time there must be some objects to which it does not refer. The
term metaphorical cannot mean literal, nor can it mean canine or
mountainous. Suppose the word mountain meant metaphor, and dog, and
Bible, and the United States. Clearly, if a word meant everything, it would
mean nothing. If, now, the law of contradiction is an arbitrary convention,
and if our linguistic theorists choose some other convention, I challenge
them to write a book in conformity with their principles. As a matter of
fact it will not be hard for them to do so. Nothing more is necessary than
to write the word metaphor sixty thousand times: Metaphor metaphor
metaphor metaphor.

This means, the dog ran up the mountain, for the word metaphor means
dog, ran, and mountain. Unfortunately, the sentence "metaphor metaphor
metaphor" also means, Next Christmas is Thanksgiving, for the word
metaphor has these meanings as well.

The point should be clear: One cannot write a book or speak a sentence
that means anything without using the law of contradiction. Logic is an
innate necessity, not an arbitrary convention that may be discarded at will.
Whether it be the atheistic philosophy of A. J. Ayer or the pietistic
depreciation of our fallible "human logic," such theories make verbal
inspiration impossible. But, fortunately, these theories make themselves
impossible as well. They are self-refuting because they cannot be stated
except by virtue of the law they repudiate.

I conclude therefore that literal language, innate logic, and verbal
inspiration have nothing academic to fear from such theories as these.

[1] See the author's Thales to Dewey, chapter 11.

[2] B. B. Warfield, The Inspiration and Authority of the Bible, 173n9.

[3] B. B. Warfield, The Inspiration and Authority of the Bible, 421.

[4] A further discussion of images will be found in my Thales to Dewey,
The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark, 299-301.

[5] John Mackintosh Shaw, Christian Doctrine, 207.

[6] Wilbur Marshall Urban, Language and Reality, 433.

[7] Wilbur Marshall Urban, Language and Reality, 382-3831

[8] Wilbur Marshall Urban, Language and Reality, 433.

[9] Wilbur Marshall Urban, Language and Reality, 444.

[10] Wilbur Marshall Urban, Language and Reality, 500.

[11] Wilbur Marshall Urban, Language and Reality, 435.

[12] Wilbur Marshall Urban, Language and Reality, 434.

[13] Wilbur Marshall Urban, Language and Reality, 436.

[14] E. L. Mascall, Words and Images, viii, 12.

[15] Austin Farrer as quoted by E. L. Mascall, Words and Images, 116-117.

[16] The Possibility of Theological Statements," chapter two in Faith and
Logic, edited by Basil Mitchell, 43, 45.

[17] Creation," Flew and MacKinnon, in New Essays in Philosophical
Theology, Flew and MacIntyre, 170ff.

[181 Bernard Williams, in Flew and MacIntyre, New Essays in Philosophical
Theology, 209, 211.

[19] I. M. Crombie, in Flew and MacIntyre, New Essays in Philosophical
Theology, 55.

[20] I. M. Crombie, in Flew and MacIntyre, New Essays in Philosophical
Theology, 71.

[21] I. M. Crombie, in Flew and MacIntyre, New Essays in Philosophical
Theology, 72, 81.

[22] I. M. Crombie, in Flew and MacIntyre, New Essays in Philosophical
Theology, 61.

[23] Wilbur Marshall Urban, Language and Reality, 445-446.

[24] Brunner, Divine-Human Encounter, 85, 110, 117. See also the definitive
monograph Emil Brunner's Concept of Revelation by Paul King Jewett.

[25] Jewett, Emil Brunner's Concept of Revelation, 104.

[26] John Dewey, Logic, The Theory of Inquiry, 82, 101, 328.

Revelation and Morality

F rom antiquity to the present, questions of morality, of good and evil, of right
and wrong, of value, of the purpose of human life have been frequently and
carefully discussed. Plato and Aristotle, Spinoza and Kant, Butler, Bentham, and
Sidgwick are a few of the better-known authors. And like these philosophers,
every thinking person must reflect on the principles or maxims that guide his
conduct. Which of two incompatible lines of action is it right to follow? Which of
two incompatible principles ought to be acknowledged? If action is to be based on
principle, how does one justify the principle? These questions, which demanded
the attention of Plato, are no less demanding today.

Ethical Disagreement

If the people of the United States were asked to give examples of moral
principles, most of the answers would include the sixth, the seventh, and
the eighth of the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not
commit adultery, and thou shalt not steal have usually been regarded as
important moral laws. An orthodox Christian, or for that matter an orthodox
Jew, can sincerely and consistently inculcate these laws because he
believes them to be the laws of God. They are right because God has
commanded them. And they are laws because God imposes penalties for
their transgression. Thus moral convictions and moral education, based on
law and right, can be consistently grounded on Biblical revelation.

On the other hand, contemporary American humanism, like pagan
antiquity, neither has this ground for morality nor does it unexceptionally
recognize these laws. Professor Edwin A. Burtt, a humanist himself, in both
editions of his Types of Religious Philosophy, reports that the more radical
humanists regard "sex as an essentially harmless pleasure which should be
regulated only by personal taste and preference." Similarly, with reference
to the other two commandments, the political radicalism of many
naturalists in attacking the right of private property has included plans of
taxation and other economic proposals that a conservative would call
legalized theft. Nor is it difficult to identify godless governments which
make use of torture and murder. Thus at least some humanists repudiate,
not merely the basis of the Ten Commandments, but their content as well.

No doubt other humanists disapprove of the brutality and murder inherent
in Marxism. Some may even have a kind word for private property. And

some of course would not advocate adultery. But the problem that
naturalism must face is this: Can an empirical philosophy, a philosophy that
repudiates revelation, an Instrumentalist or descriptive philosophy - can
such a philosophy provide a justification for any of the Ten
Commandments? Are not those humanists who still oppose murder and
theft living on the Christian capital inherited from their Puritan ancestors?
Or, rather, the more important question is this: Can humanism, having
rejected revelation, provide a logical ground for any moral laws whatever?
Can naturalism furnish a rational basis for any of the decisions of life? Or,
are all choices, like Burtt's choice of sex, merely matters of personal taste
and unreasoning preference?

The following argument in answer to these questions is designed to lead
to the conclusion that a rational life is impossible without being based upon
a divine revelation. The method of arriving at this conclusion will be to
analyze the implications of non-revelational ethics. Some detailed
arguments to this effect I have given elsewhere.]!] Here this material will
be briefly summarized, and to it some additional analyses will be added.

Utilitarianism

According to the principle of Utility as popularly expounded in the
nineteenth century, the choice between two lines of action should depend
upon a calculation of the amounts, durations, and intensities of the
pleasures and pains that each action would produce. That line of action is
right and to be chosen whose total of pleasure is the greater. Since,
however, the action of any one person affects others, at least to some
degree, the calculation must include the pleasures and pains of all the
persons affected; and it is this total that indicates what ought to be done.

Nor is this calculation to be restricted to immediate and obvious
consequences. For example, a man in making his will may bequeath a good
sum to a charitable institution. But about the time he dies, new directors
are elected who are inefficient or even corrupt. Their squandering of his
legacy seems to produce less pleasure for the public than some other
provision might have done. Therefore, one is tempted to say that the
bequest, on Utilitarian principles, is immoral. This need not be so. For in
addition to these consequences, one must also calculate the effect of the
donor's beneficent example in stimulating philanthropy among other men of
wealth, and also indeed in strengthening his own character for the

remainder of his life. These consequences, plus a few others that might be
imagined, could possibly overbalance a slight degree of corruption so that
the sum total of pleasure produced would justify the act.

The consequences, therefore, by which an act is determined to be right
or wrong include all the consequences and all the people affected. Pains are
to be balanced off against pleasures. Thus Utilitarianism can in short be
said to aim at the greatest good of the greatest number, i.e., the greatest
total of pleasure.

The Greatest Good of the Greatest Number

Some surprising implications may be drawn from the principle of the
greatest good of the greatest number. In 1940 the population of Germany
was perhaps ninety million, of whom six million were Jews. Hitler
massacred five million of them. Let us say this caused five million units of
pain. But as the Germans were largely anti-Semitic, the massacre and the
seizure of Jewish property gave each German a unit of pleasure. Suppose
even that the quick death of the gas chamber caused each Jew two units of
pain. This still results in a surplus of pleasure over pain. Must not
Utilitarianism conclude therefore that the massacre of the Jews was right?
At any rate, this is approximately the theory by which the Communists
have justified their massacres of Ukrainians, Hungarians, and an estimated
sixteen million Chinese.[2] When one thinks of all the good that
Communism will do for all future generations, a few million murders are
insignificant.

The deliberate infliction of pain by massacre may be more shocking to
the conscience of the free West than lesser injustices are; but whether
massacre or unjust taxation, is it not the principle that the majority rules?
In the United States the wealthy are heavily taxed. The poorer majority
believe they can give themselves more pleasure by inflicting pain on the
minority. The defense offered is the greatest good of the greatest number.
But does not this defense apply to massacre with the same force that it
applies to the graduated income tax?

All non-Com munistic Utilitarians deprecate murder. They ordinarily try to
avoid lesser injustices also, though they may argue that the graduated
income tax is not unjust. But the problem becomes acute when a member
of the minority decides to oppose the will of the majority. The Latvians, the
Hungarians, and the Tibetans resisted Communism. That is, they opposed

the greatest good of the greatest number - just as a former governor of
Utah resisted the income tax and thereby tried to harm the majority. But it
is wrong to oppose the greatest good of the greatest number. Therefore,
the minority should cooperate in inflicting pain on itself so that the greatest
total of pleasure may be achieved.

Originally, Utilitarianism took its start from the theory of psychological
hedonism. Jeremy Bentham assumed as a scientific fact that all men are
completely dominated by two sovereign masters: pleasure and pain. The
one is man's sole motive and the other cannot possibly be desired. Whether
this is a scientific fact or not, it has at least a degree of plausibility. The
next step in Utilitarianism was to advance from psychological to ethical
hedonism. The good is pleasure; my good is my pleasure; and it would be
as immoral as it is foolish to cause myself harm. This also is at least
plausible.

But Utilitarianism is not individualistic hedonism. Bentham aimed at the
sum total of pleasure of the whole human race. Henry Sidgwick after him
denied that "my good is my pleasure." Only the greatest good of the
greatest number could qualify as the criterion of a moral action. If a given
line of action results in harm to me but produces a greater total of
pleasure to mankind, then it is immoral for me to seek my own good. In
this case I must seek my own harm. And this is not plausible. Certainly it
is not plausible that the Latvians, Hungarians, and Tibetans should
cooperate in their own destruction. Here then is the problem of the conflict
between the good of an individual and the sum total of pleasure for the
human race.

Utilitarians have tried to avoid this conflict in two ways. First, Sidgwick
assumed, presupposed, or broadly hinted that ultimately the pleasures of all
people harmonize. The seeming conflict depends on a mistaken calculation.
In reality my good is compatible and ultimately identical with the good of
everyone else. No real conflict is possible. The pleasure of inflicting pain on
anyone always entails future pains that cancel out the pleasure. Therefore,
whether a person seeks his own greatest pleasure or whether he seeks the
greatest pleasure of the whole race, he will do precisely the same thing.
Every action that promotes the one promotes the other also.

Such a view successfully avoids the justification of massacre, but
unfortunately it is a view that Utilitarianism cannot logically accept.
Utilitarianism makes a point of calculation and scientific observation. It

attempts to be a descriptive theory. But it is not an observed nor an
observable fact that the pleasures of all people harmonize. One might
believe it on faith, but not on experience. Even if the Communistic
calculations that justify massacre are mistaken, there is no evidence that
the pleasures of all people have harmonized in the past and obviously there
is as yet no evidence at all about the future. In fact, the preponderance of
evidence is against it. The conflict of wars, the conflict of religions, the
continual cross purposes of individuals all seem to show that if one person
gets what is good for him, another person cannot. Hence a theory that
repudiates faith or revelation and is based on observation cannot logically
object to massacres. At least it cannot object to my seeking my own good
at the expense of others.

Sidgwick indeed argued that if we may assume "such a Being as God by
the consensus of theologians is supposed to be," we may establish morality
on a utilitarian basis. But he hesitated to assert the existence of God on
the basis of ethical data. In this he was wise. If it were possible to show
empirically that all pleasures harmonize, perhaps the existence of God could
be inferred; but in the absence of such evidence, the inference remains
ungrounded. In the end Sidgwick cautiously confesses to a sort of
skepticism.

What makes a Utilitarian appeal to God still more incongruous is that not
any kind of god will do. The conflict between individual and public good
cannot be resolved by Aristotle's First Mover or by Hegel's Absolute Spirit.
On the contrary, it must be a being such as God "by the consensus of
theologians is supposed to be." Having been written in nineteenth-century
England, this phrase designates the Christian God. That is to say, if an
appeal to God is to remove the conflict between private and public good,
and if a massacre is to produce pain for its perpetrator, then the God
appealed to must punish Joseph Stalin in a future life and must reward his
now dead victims to even things up. Stalin certainly did not suffer for his
crimes in this life. He seems to have been one of the most successful men
who has ever lived. And obviously his victims did not get their equal share
of pleasure. Only if God punishes Stalin in Hell can it be maintained that
God harmonizes all pleasures. But a Utilitarian appeal to Heaven, Hell, and a
future life is an illegitimate appeal to Christian principles. Bentham rather
explicitly restricted his sanctions to this life. In general, Utilitarianism is a
this-worldly theory. Therefore, the appeal to God, if made at all, is

illegitimate, and the conflict remains an insoluble difficulty.

There is, however, a second way in which Utilitarianism can avoid the
justification of massacre. The suggestion is also found in Sidgwick; but it is
more interesting to note that after sixty years during which Utilitarianism
has been largely neglected by writers on ethics, a contemporary now
returns to this second idea. The greatest good of the greatest number is by
itself an incorrect principle. The criterion by which to distinguish a good act
from an evil act is not the mere total of pleasure, but the equality of its
distribution. Massacre may, arguably, produce a greater total of pleasure;
but the summum bonum is the equal distribution of pleasure. Every person
in the world should have one unit of pleasure before anyone has two. Or, if
I may say so, no American should have a college education before every
Chinese has a bathtub.

Aside from the illustration provided in the last sentence, such is the
contention of the recent volume, Ethical Value, by Professor George F.
Harouni. His main point, at least for the present purpose, is that the equal
distribution of good - which he prefers to identify as satisfaction rather
than pleasure - is a criterion of value independent of the amount of
happiness achieved. When he comes to consider the conflict between
individual and public good - or, as he phrases it, the relation between utility
and justice - he finds the problem insoluble except on one premise.
Dismissing several attempted solutions he concludes, "the only alternative
open to me, then, is to stuff into my definition of 'right' all that is required"
(italics his). That is to say, Professor Harouni defines right or good as the
equal distribution of satisfactions. This really assumes the point at issue.
For example, he refuses to discuss Kant's view that only a good will can be
good without qualification, on the ground that it is not an analysis of the
meaning of good. This refusal is unsatisfactory, for neither Kant's view nor
that of egoistic hedonism can be refuted by simply defining them out of
existence.

To enforce the point that a definition does not solve the problem under
discussion, a few remarks on equality may be added.

First, there is the unanswered question of why equality of distribution
should be chosen rather than the greater total. A reason rather than a
definition is called for. Second, equality is not a rational criterion. Surely it
is not rational in Kant's sense of the term. Its denial does not produce a
logical contradiction. Or, if this is not what is meant by "rational," we can

only ask, What is? Is it meant merely that equality is plausible? But, third,
Harouni's criterion is not plausible. It implies that I am under obligation to
harm myself, at least to the extent of not enjoying pleasures I might
achieve, until all other people have as much satisfaction as I now have.
Does this mean that I ought to distribute my philosophical library to the
Tibetans and Nepalese? If not, what does it mean? These three points are
honest, material questions and cannot be set aside simply by deciding to
define good as the equal distribution of satisfaction.

Calculation

But perhaps the most crushing objection is that the calculation required
under all these forms of Utilitarianism is impossible. It is impossible if we
consider only one's individual good and all the more so if we try to total in
the whole human race. Without calculation, Westerners have a strong
suspicion that murder causes a surplus of pain over pleasure, yet in less
violent and more ordinary matters what is there to rely on but pure
guesswork? Should I buy stock on the New York Exchange? There is
something more than guesswork by which we can reasonably conclude that
one stock will be more profitable financially than another. But will the
money gained give me more pleasure than another course of action?
Perhaps I should buy a new car instead. Or should I invest my money at
Las Vegas and Reno? How will each of these affect my grandchildren? Is it
better for me, a young man, to become a physician, a veterinarian, or an
engineer? Should I major in English, History, or Geology? These are
perfectly serious questions that many people have had to ask themselves.
But how could anyone possibly estimate the amounts, the durations, and
the intensities of the pleasures to be caused by each of these decisions,
not only the pleasures he himself will experience, but the pleasures of all
others who will be affected by his action? Is not Utilitarian calculation
impossible?

Utilitarianism holds that the goodness or moral character of an act
depends on its tendency to produce pleasurable consequences for the
human race as a whole. Surely it must be admitted that the impossibility of
deciding which of two actions conduces to the good is a legitimate point of
criticism, for a theory of ethics that gives no specific guidance in the
actual circumstances of life can hardly be called a theory of ethics at all.

The Good

Yet there is another and still more important point of criticism. An
acceptable theory of ethics ought at least to identify the end of action,
even if it cannot indicate the effective means thereto. Now, Utilitarianism
has just shown itself unable to do the latter; can it then do the former? Is
the good at which we should aim personal pleasure, the greatest sum total
of pleasure for everyone, the equal distribution of pleasure, or something
altogether different from pleasure? Is it possible to know what the good is?
Again, a theory of ethics that failed to identify the aim of life is even more
obviously no theory of ethics at all.

For the purpose of considering this point, the language and the
discussions of the twentieth century are clearer than those of the
nineteenth. Though it is true that Utilitarianism made pleasure the goal of
all our activity and gave some reasons therefor, the ambiguity of the term
pleasure has been noted by nearly every anti-hedonistic writer from Plato
on. So great are the contrasts among pleasures that John Stuart Mill was
forced to abandon the basic hedonism that made these differences
immaterial. The problem has been examined more explicitly in recent years,
and the term value has been substituted for pleasure. Such a substitution,
whether it be the term value or satisfaction, can hardly alter the nature of
the problem; the difficulties remain the same; but perhaps it will seem
more up-to-date to use twentieth-century language.

First, however, let us state the questions once more. Is it possible for a
descriptive theory of ethics, an empirical theory of ethics, a theory that
makes no use of revelation, to give us a rational program for life? How do
the naturalists and humanists, or even those who try to base a religion on
experience, arrive at their conclusions respecting the good?

Values in Experience

The usual method in recent literature is to claim that values can be
found in experience. The late Edgar Sheffield Brightman is a good example
of those who try to base a religion on values found in experience. He
defined value as "whatever is actually liked, prized, esteemed, desired,
approved, or enjoyed by anyone at any time.... Good," he says, "is
synonymous with value." Burtt, on the other hand, speaking for the
humanists, finds in experience the values of friendship, art, and science.
Dewey also finds that art is of value, though he often uses the more

commonplace arrangements of heating, lighting, and speedy communication
as instances of values. But whatever the particular items are, the fact that
they are values is supposed to be a discovery of experience.

Brightman's definition of value is particularly broad. If we are to call
valuable anything that anyone has ever liked or enjoyed, then we should
have to list not only friendship, art, and science, but also whiskey,
gambling, and crime. Nor are these last three to be added merely as the
hostile criticism of an unfriendly opponent. On the contrary, Gardner
Williams of the University of Toledo, in his volume, Humanistic Ethics,
says, "Selfish ambition, or the will to power, when successful, is
intrinsically good because it is intrinsically satisfactory" (6). Thus murder is
a value because it has been discovered as a value in experience. Successful
murder and ambition have been conspicuously exemplified in the dictator
Stalin. Let it be admitted that you and I do not have the skill and the
determination to emulate him; our efforts to dominate a nation would soon
fail and we would come to grief; but can empirical theories consistently
disapprove of such an eminent success as Stalin? Is not murder as truly a
value as art, or prayer, or modern heating systems?

It happens that most of the humanists, and of course the religionists like
Brightman, want to produce a theory that would condemn murder and
brutality. How they proceed, we must examine with care. But much more
important than condemning brutality is the necessity of avoiding the chaos
of subjectivity implicit in the definition of value as anything anyone likes or
enjoys. Strange as it may seem, there would be less logical objection to a
theory that definitely recommended murder than to a theory that made all
desires equally legitimate. If dictatorship and domination is the goal of life,
then at least there is a norm of conduct that applies to all mankind. It may
not be the norm you or I now accept, but it is a definite norm. And that
makes it a theory of ethics. But if all we can say is that murder is right
for Stalin, and prayer is right for Brightman, and guzzling booze is right for
the alcoholic, then we have no ethics at all because we have no theory at
all. In such a case there is no universal norm.

It is essential, therefore, that those who begin with values as enjoyments
found in anyone's experience must somehow show that certain values are
values for all men. Brightman in his way and Dewey in his both try to avoid
the chaos of subjectivism. A previous footnote gave a reference to
Brightman's theory of value, and the arguments will not be reproduced here.

But since Dewey has so widely influenced the American scene, it seems
wise to summarize the criticism contained in the book mentioned in the
same footnote.

Dewey and Instrumentalism

For Dewey and Instrumentalism the difficulties of ethics are important
not merely in themselves alone, not merely for a theory of ethics by itself,
but much more for the entire scope of that type of philosophy. If there is
any crucial point at which humanism is obligated to present a convincing
and indeed an unanswerable argument, it is with respect to the field of
ethics. Of course the reason is not that ethics, unlike symbolic logic, is
immediately important to the everyday life of an individual whether he is a
philosopher or not. Nor is the reason merely that ethics is essential to a
comprehensive system of philosophy. This would be true for Aristotle and
Hegel as well as for Dewey. But rather, Instrumentalism must stake its
claim on ethics because it makes an activistic practical interest the
foundation of its system. This is the school that has inveighed most
vehemently against ivory towers and the detachment of empyrean
contemplation. Eternity and other-worldliness are called delusions. Thinking
concerns this world, and ideas are plans of overt action. Ethical principles
are absolutely basic in humanistic Pragmatism.

This is not true of Christianity. Admittedly, Christianity with its message
of salvation from sin lays great stress on a hunger and thirst after
righteousness. Particularly in the Calvinistic tradition, the Ten
Commandments have been emphasized. But ethics is not the foundation of
the Christian system. Christianity is based on theology, and ethics is a
derivative subject. What is right and what is wrong is determined by God's
commands. But with the Instrumentalists, ethics is the basic subject.

That Instrumentalism recognizes its need of ethics could be documented
many times over. Nearly any one of Dewey's books would furnish apposite
quotations. Here only one will be used, a quotation from his Quest for
Certainty: "The effective condition of the integration of all divided purposes
and conflicts of belief is the realization that intelligent action is the sole
ultimate resource of mankind in every field whatsoever." [3]

A second reading of this quotation shows its universal application. Not
some only, but all divided purposes are to be integrated; not some subjects
only, but every field whatsoever is covered. Intelligent action is man's sole

ultimate resource; there is no other at all. There is no God from whom
man can obtain comfort, encouragement, and strength - much less wisdom,
instruction, and intervention. Man has only himself.

It is this atheism that throws into relief the desperate need of an
irrefragable theory of ethics. If humanism fails to save man from the plight
of his conflicts in every field whatsoever, humanism fails indeed. It may
have an admirable theory of science, it may devise effective aids in
education, it may stimulate professors to take part in politics; but since
science and politics are only means to chosen ends and ideals, if humanism
cannot rationally justify one ideal as against another, if its theory of ethics
cannot give clearcut guidance in the perplexities of life, it will have failed in
its main endeavor and must be abandoned.

The main topic of the present discussion is the identification of ideals,
norms, or values. Something along the way will have to be said about the
means to the achievement of these values, but the main interest is in the
end to be attained. In the language of the Shorter Catechism, we are
asking, What is the chief end of man? Let us not prejudge the matter,
however. Dewey would hesitate at the idea of one single chief end. He
prefers to speak in the plural. Let us then do likewise. Our aim is to
identify norms, ideals, or values.

Changing Morality

First of all, it must be noted that whatever ideals or standards Dewey
may propose, they are not to be regarded as fixed and final norms for all
human beings.

We institute standards of justice, truth, esthetic quality, etc....
exactly as we set up a platinum bar as a standard measurer of
lengths. The standard is just as much subject to modification and
revision in the one case as in the other on the basis of the
consequences of its operational application: ...The superiority of one
conception of justice to another is of the same order as the superiority
of the metric system... although not of the same quality.^!

This comparison between a standard of justice and a standard of
measurement is not an adequate illustration for Dewey's purposes. In
measuring lines the result is the same whether one uses inches or
centimeters. When two weights are compared, grams and ounces will

uniformly agree on which is the heavier. But in morality Dewey will have an
act to be commendable on one standard and evil on another. For Dewey's
purposes, then, another illustration is better.

Moral standards, he says, are like language in that both are the result of
custom. Theories of absolute ethics argue that ideal standards antecede
customs and judge of their rightness or wrongness; any alleged ideals that
are merely the result of custom could not be its judge. That this
absolutism is at best unnecessary is seen in the case of language. There
were no antecedent principles of grammar. Language evolved from
unintelligent babblings and instinctive gestures. Then came the rules of
grammar and the apparatus of literacy. This, however, is not the end, for
the language and its grammar change to meet new situations and new
needs. Words change their forms and meanings; new expressions are
invented; and the old rules become archaic. Nevertheless, the rules of
language, though merely the unforeseen and unintended results of custom,
exercise their authority over us. Grammar and morals are both parts of life.
No one can escape them, even if he wants to. Man's choice is simply
between adopting more or less significant customs.

This analogy between the rules of grammar and the principles of morality
carries important implications. Most obvious is the fact that different
nations use different languages. Of course, if we wish to speak French, we
must conform to its customs sufficiently to be understood. And if we are
born French, we do not have much choice at first. Eventually, however, it
may become possible to emigrate to the United States. This involves a
decision to speak English rather than French. The opportunity to disapprove
of the moral customs of a nation, and against social pressure to live a
different kind of life, is more readily available than emigration. The
Christian martyrs of the early centuries and of the Reformation had decided
against prevailing custom. Does not this require a moral norm superior to
the customs that are condemned?

Dewey's analogy with language tends to minimize the importance of this
question. After all, it is of no great moment whether a person speaks
French, German, or English, nor whether he breaks a few rules of grammar
in doing so. But Christian missionaries report that in certain sections of
Africa social customs are such that girls scarcely reach their teens before
they have been raped half-a-dozen times. And it was only last century that
there were cannibal tribes on several Pacific islands. Even today, as

independence is granted to the Congo, cannibalism, as well as tribal
warfare, is reviving. Missionaries have opposed these "moral standards,"
these products of custom, these results of instinctive gestures. They
preach that divinely revealed, fixed, and universal standards condemn such
actions. Now, if this is not true, and if ethics is analogous to language, can
there be any justification for imposing the customs of one society upon
another society? Does not the condemnation of one set of customs require
a norm that is more than the effect of another set of customs?

Dewey has an interesting and perhaps a disturbing answer to this
question. In the first place he asserts that the proponents of fixed
standards, such as Christian missionaries, are self-deceived. They have in
fact no absolute norm. Their moral ideas are merely the results of the
customs of their own group. Custom therefore is still the source of all
morality. Now, in the second place, the opposition of one custom to a wider
custom is a form of class warfare, indeed "the most serious form of class
warfare." Class warfare is not overscrupulous. Each side treats its opponent
as a willful violator of absolute moral principles. Thus we have the present
conflict between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat. Hence the notion of
fixed moral standards results in a war that can be ended only by force.

Thus by this twofold answer Dewey consistently explains how, even if
morals are nothing more than custom, moral conflicts between societies
can as a matter of fact occur. But in doing so does he not imply that
cannibalism is as good in its place as Christian morality is in its place?
Does not the tone of his remarks suggest that rape remains commendable
in Africa and that Christian missionaries are despicable imperialists? The
difference in moral standards, therefore, is not the difference between
inches and centimeters, which always give the same result; it is a
difference such that no ideal or norm applies everywhere, to everybody, and
all the time.

Values in Experience

The denial of fixed and universal standards is of major importance, but
there is also a lesser problem that Dewey must face. Even if the values of
Africa and of Christendom differ, how can the people in either society
identify their values in the flux of experience? Can Dewey's methods, when
applied in the United States, distinctly conclude that one particular type of
action is good and valuable, and another type is not?

John Dewey believed that he had seen the problem clearly and that he
had discovered the key to its solution. The deepest problem of modern life,
so he held, is the integration of man's beliefs about the physical world with
his beliefs about human values. In the middle ages, science and religion
were harmonious because they were both developed against a single
philosophical background. All problems were solved on Thomistic principles.
Today, however, medieval science has disappeared, but common beliefs
about value still retain some medieval flavor. Since, now, modern conduct is
mainly motivated by modern science, the result is that the conduct of
modern man conflicts with his beliefs about values. Because of two
reactions to this conflict, two disadvantages arise. Some men with a strong
emotional attachment to the antiquated theory of value disparage and
retard science, at least by dissipating their energies in unfruitful endeavors.
The other type accepts science wholeheartedly, but because the values they
have been taught cannot be scientifically established, they repudiate value
altogether. Therefore the important problem for a philosophy that does not
wish to be isolated from modern life is to harmonize modern theory and
practice.

The solution of this problem is to be found in a more thorough
exploitation of scientific method. As science detached problem after
problem from the medieval synthesis, its successes accumulated until now,
in the twentieth century, there is reason to suppose that all the problems
of humanity are amenable to the same method. Beliefs about values, about
ethics and sociology, are today in much the same state as were beliefs
about physics in the pre-scientific era. What is needed is the application of
scientific techniques. Only two attitudes block the acceptance of this view.
With some there is a basic distrust of the capacity of experience to
develop standards, ideals, or norms for life. This first attitude depends on
eternal values and appeals to a Supreme Being. No hope can be expected
from such a theistic view. Secular interests now dominate men's minds;
the sense of transcendental values has become enfeebled; the authority of
the church has diminished; men may profess the old religion, but they act
secularly. This divergence between what men do and what they say is the
outward evidence of the conflict in modern thought. To solve the problem
and remove the conflict, men's thoughts should be made to conform to
what they do. To invent an example Dewey does not use: Men play golf on
Sunday and believe in the existence of God; while continuing to play golf,

they should be taught to repudiate belief in God, rather than to change their
conduct and go to church.

The second attitude which blocks acceptance of the scientific method is
the enjoyment of pleasures, goods, or values irrespective of the method
used to produce this enjoyment. Such a view supposes that "to be enjoyed
and to be a value are two names for one and the same fact." This attitude
or theory of value is superior to the theistic view in that the values are
concrete experiences of desire and satisfaction here and now. Its failure
arises from the fact that these enjoyments are casual and unregulated by
intelligence. Escape from transcendental absolutism is not to be had in
casual enjoyments, but in defining value by enjoyments which are the
consequences of intelligent action. "Without the intervention of thought,
enjoyments are not values but problematic goods, becoming values when
they reissue in a changed form from intelligent behavior .'T51

Enjoyments therefore are fugitive and precarious so that there is needed
a method of discriminating among them on the basis of their conditions and
consequences. Goods are just goods, with certain intrinsic qualities; of
them as goods there is nothing to be said; they are simply what they are.
Whatever can be said of them pertains to their causes and effects. The
reason for enjoying an object is often that it is a means to or a result of
something else; the reason concerns the cause of the enjoyment and has
nothing to do with its intrinsic qualities.

Before continuing the summary, one should stop to note a confusing
factor in the lines above. True it is that things are often enjoyed, or at
least chosen, because they are causes of something else. Such goods, by
some authors, are called instrumental as opposed to intrinsic goods; and
they range from taking a cab to the airport to visiting the dentist. But
Dewey's argument really requires that this be the case, not just "often," but
always. Let us stop and ask whether all goods are instrumental, or whether
some are intrinsic. Is it true that the reason for enjoying something has
nothing to do with its intrinsic qualities? This question should be kept in
mind as the summary proceeds.

A genuine good therefore, Dewey continues, differs from a spurious good
because of reflection on consequences. All criticism concerns consequences
because no properties carry adequate credentials on their face.

In this connection two points should be raised. The first, mentioned a
few lines above, concerns the antecedents of which the value in question is

a consequence. This point has to do with the enjoyment of casual pleasures
irrespective of the method used to produce them. The second and perhaps
more important point touches on the consequences which the enjoyment
itself produces.

To invent an example, suppose that a man applies for a job, does his
work, and is paid; in such a case the money is not a spurious good but a
real value because it was earned by intelligent action. Had the man found
the same amount of money on the sidewalk, it would not have been a real
value. So Dewey contends. To most people, however, money found is just
as valuable as money earned. In fact, although the purchasing power of a
dollar earned and of a dollar found are the same, the work of earning may
be so lengthy and laborious that the sum of a life's values are diminished
by intelligent foresight and increased by a lucky find. The workman's time
and strength might well be so exhausted that what the dollar buys could
barely be enjoyed. Thus one might say - in sharp contrast with Dewey -
that the casual, unearned enjoyment is the greater value.

Of course, if Dewey meant merely that it is not wise to depend for one's
living on finding money in the street, his argument would be sound enough,
but it would be trivial. A theist of the most pronounced supernatural views,
as well as the Epicurean who tries to avoid trouble by dozing in the sun,
would agree that a certain amount of planning and work are necessary for
most of our ordinary satisfactions. This triviality cannot be the basis of
Dewey's antagonism to theists and Epicureans. His expressions and
emphasis seem to say that unexpected enjoyments are simply of no value.
They are spurious.

This view, which seems so odd to common sense, apparently depends on
the thesis that the value of an object depends on its being a result of and a
means to something else, and in particular does not depend on its intrinsic
enjoyable quality. Nothing is valuable in itself. Enough has been said now of
the antecedents of the enjoyment; the second point concerns the
consequences of the enjoyed value.

On this point too the criticism, continuing to press the issue of intrinsic
value, will be much the same. It may be granted that we assign value to
money because of the possible consequences, namely, the things we can
buy with it; in this sense a bill or a check, being only a piece of paper, does
not carry value credentials on its face. But is this to say that nothing does?
Is there nothing valuable for itself alone? Are all values merely

instrumental? Is there no final end whatever?

For purposes of illustration a game of chess will do. Is the pleasure of
chess dependent for its value on the consequences? Of course, chess may
be used to cement friendships, and no doubt other consequences could be
ingeniously listed. But ordinarily the reason for playing chess is not at all
that the game is a means to or a result of something else. On the
contrary, it has all to do with its intrinsic value-quality. If the credentials
on its face were not adequate, chess would not be chosen.

Dewey, in strange company with Aristotle, might spurn this illustration of
chess. Playing games is not a sufficiently serious activity to be
commensurate with major human endeavors. Besides, as Aristotle said,
recreation is for the sake of work; we play in order to work: We do not
work in order to play. Although such sentiments fit the Aristotelian
viewpoint very well, it is not so clear that Dewey can use them with much
consistency. If nothing is intrinsically valuable, how could one insist that
play is a means to work rather than the reverse? If nothing carries its own
credentials, how could one distinguish between the serious and the trivial?
Aristotle made recreation a means to an intrinsically valuable activity, an
activity that is chosen for its own sake and not as a means to anything
else. But if, as Dewey says, there is no final cause, and if everything is
chosen merely as a means to something else, and never because of its
intrinsic qualities, does it make any difference what we choose?

Young men and women in large numbers choose to go to college. On
Dewey's theory, only too well accepted by the students, the reason cannot
be any intrinsic value in knowledge. To give such a reason would be to flee
from reality and take refuge in the discredited Aristotelian ivory tower. For
the young man, college is a means of getting a better job; for the young
woman, it is a means of getting a better man. But neither the family that
marriage brings nor the food that the job supplies is to be chosen for any
intrinsic quality. These too are merely means to something else. College is
the means to a job; a job is the means to marriage; marriage is the means
to a family; a family, along with the job, is the means of sending a son to
college. But chess is the means of restricting social contacts to a small
number; restricting social contacts is the means of avoiding marriage;
single blessedness saves the money one would spend on a son's tuition;
and this money is the means for purchasing a more handsome set of
chessmen. But why follow one causal series rather than the other? All

activities are valueless means to other valueless means. The means have
no end, and choice has become irrational. Or, at least, choices are based on
nothing else than personal preference.

Here it would seem that another humanist sees more clearly than John
Dewey. Gardner Williams writes, "It does not matter, from an individual's
point of view, how he is satisfied, so long as, in the long run, he is
satisfied." [6]

In this context the how would seem to include, not only the identification
of the object that gives satisfaction, but also the means by which the
object was obtained. In this case the object would be equally valuable or
satisfying, whether it was obtained by intelligent foresight and attention to
the means of production, or whether it was obtained by pure luck.

To these last assertions Dewey would probably reply with some
expressions of disgust. Such opinions he would repudiate, not merely as a
lack of enthusiasm for scientific method, but also as an avoidance of
responsibility for reconstructing economic, political, and religious
institutions. In a number of places Dewey bases his rejection of opposing
theories on sociological preferences. Epistemology, for example, wastes
time that could profitably be spent in remedying social evils. Thought
should not be employed for any private good; if it aims at some special
result, it is not sincere. Strange to say, in this context he even speaks of
"something worthwhile for itself," though on the next page he adds with
more consistency that "there is no particular end set up in advance so as
to shut in the activities of observation, forming of ideas, and application."
Instead of

emotional satisfaction and private comfort.. .the satisfaction in
question means a satisfaction of the needs and conditions of the
problem out of which the idea, the purpose and method of action
arises.... So repulsive is a conception of truth which makes it a mere
tool of private ambition and aggrandizement that the wonder is that
critics have attributed such a notion to sane men. [71

But is Dewey's disgust a sufficient reply to the objections? On what
grounds can he construct a theory of sociology that would eliminate
epistemology as a waste of time? Can he distinguish a social evil from a
social value? By what logical argument can Dewey recommend college
rather than chess? Has he any reason for being disgusted at private good?

He cannot rightly claim that critics have mistakenly attributed crazy
notions to sane men. Professor Williams is a sane man; so were the
Sophists and the Epicureans. And many other men will refuse to relinquish
particular ends, private comfort, and intrinsic goods merely because Dewey
finds them repulsive.

Security and Scientific Ethics

Behind Dewey's disgust and behind the insistence that the methods of
science will solve ethical problems lies a contrast that Dewey was fond of
emphasizing. It is the contrast between certainty and security. Religionists,
mystics, and deluded Platonists seek for certainty and sometimes claim
that they have actually come into possession of absolute truth. But the
Instrumentalist theory of science and F. C. S. Schiller's keen criticism of
Plato show that fixed truth cannot be had. The traditional desire for
certainty should therefore be abandoned. In its place modern science has
provided something much better - security. Chemistry improves the food
supply of civilized peoples. Physics allows for the invention of telephones,
radio, and jet planes. If, now, we scientifically study the means and
conditions by which ends or values can be made more secure, we have in
Dewey's opinion solved the problems of ethics.

But what is the problem of ethics? Is it indeed the problem of security?
Is it not rather the choice of what to secure? Dewey has indicated some
rather definite political choices. He opposes laissez-faire, liberty, and
individualism and advocates some type of collectivism. Yet we are forced
to ask whether the scientific method of his theory compels us to choose
the one rather than the other. Science furnishes means to whatever a man
may choose. But can it furnish any reason for choosing this in preference
to that? The main question, therefore, is not how to secure values, but how
to select them. To substitute security for certainty under these conditions
must be an act of philosophic and existential desperation.

However, security, reflection on conditions and consequences, and the
disparagement of intrinsic qualities are a consistent application of the
parallelism of ethics with science. Science turned its back on the
immediately perceived wetness of water in order to form a conception,
H20, that could produce more secure and more significant experiences of
the wetness. Things enjoyed should be treated similarly; they are
possibilities of values to be achieved. To say that something is enjoyed is

equivalent to saying water is wet. This may be a fact, but it is not a value.
A value is something satisfactory; and the satisfactory is that which will
do, i.e., a prediction concerning the future, not a statement about the
present. A statement about the present - such as, this experience is
satisfying - only raises a problem. Granted that we enjoy it, how is the
enjoyment to be rated? Is it a value or not? Is it something to be enjoyed?
To say that it is a value means that it will continue to satisfy. It will do. A
statement of present fact makes no claim on action, but a judgment about
what is to be desired looks to the future and possesses de jure and not
merely de facto quality.

In the light of previous ethical speculation, the distinction between a
merely de facto quality and a de jure quality would seem to be an
important one. Is it possible to see that one enjoyment will not do and that
another will do? How can we distinguish the value that will continue to
satisfy in the future from the one that will not? And how can this
distinction be made without private comforts and final ends?

Dewey notes that although values must be connected inherently with
likings, preferences, or desires, they are not to be connected with any
random preference, but only with those rationally approved after
examination. The conflict between thoughtless, sporadic wishes and plans
reflectively chosen for long-term purposes is a common one. About the
first, people usually say, I would like to do or have this; but about the
second, they assert, with regret or determination, I ought to do that. Dewey
must take into account the "ought" of traditional morality, and the
distinction between de jure and de facto is to the point. The question is
whether Instrumentalism can justify such a distinction. What sort of
examination will reveal that one liking is to be approved and another
rejected? And inasmuch as Dewey criticizes the rationalistic theory on the
score that it affords no guidance, one naturally expects that Dewey will
provide the guidance.

What sort of examination Dewey has in mind is clear enough - at least it
is easy to quote the sentences by which Dewey believes he has met the
requirements. In fact, he puts one of them in italics: "Judgments about
values are judgments about the conditions and the results of experienced
objects; judgments about that which should regulate the formation of our
desires, affections, and enjoyments." When duties or values conflict,
dogmatism attempts to construct a scale of values. But this, says Dewey,

is a confession of inability to judge the concrete. The alternate to a
hierarchical scheme is judgment by means of the relations in which values
occur. One must examine their causes, conditions, and consequences, their
interactions and connections; the more we ascertain of these details, the
more we know the objects in question, and the better we can judge its
value. He states, "Enjoyments that issue from conduct directed by insight
into relations have a meaning and a validity due to the way in which they
are experienced. Such enjoyments are not to be repented of; they generate
no aftertaste of bitterness."

Dewey's argument here depends on three related assumptions: that
casual enjoyments are not values, that values are means to ends, and that
enjoyments chosen in the light of their relations are not to be repented of.
He gives an example. Heating and lighting, speed of transportation and
communication, have been attained, not by lauding their desirability, but by
studying their conditions. "Knowledge of relations having been obtained,
ability to produce followed, and enjoyment ensued as a matter of course."

If this example is intended to show how scientific method can produce
ideals, it is not convincing. Scientific method undoubtedly secures speed of
transportation, but enjoyment and satisfaction do not follow as a matter of
course. Speed of transportation and communication help to make war more
horrible. Knowledge of relations and ability to produce can be directed
toward painful ends as easily as toward pleasurable ends. In both cases the
means are valuable for the production of the ends; and in both cases the
agent may have an exhaustive knowledge of causes, conditions,
consequences, interactions, and connections; but where is it shown that
scientific procedure can distinguish between a good end and an evil end? In
other words, must there not be a value, a good, an end, whose intrinsic
goodness can motivate a choice before our knowledge of means, conditions,
and circumstances will lead us to secure it? Can science possibly justify
ideals?

Evil Ideals

It is in this line of thought that the distinction between de facto and de
jure quality becomes clearly necessary. Dewey agrees that there are wrong
ideals. Without aesthetic enjoyment, mankind might become a race of
economic monsters capable of using leisure only in ostentatious display and
extravagant dissipation. Apparently no amount of knowledge of interactions

and relations will make economic monsters a value. But why not? The
peace settlement of World War I was made with the most realistic
attention to concrete details of economic advantage, and Dewey never tires
of insisting on concrete details; the aims too were broadly social and were
not limited to private comfort; but at Versailles, according to Dewey, it
was attention to economic advantage distributed in proportion to physical
power that created future disturbances. And presumably this was bad. The
evil of such a situation does not arise from the absence of ideals (much
less, it must also be said, from an ignorance of details), but rather the
greatest evils arise from the wrong ideals. How then can further attention
to realistic detail identify valuable ideals? Dewey berates short-sightedness
and insists that one should not sacrifice the future to immediate pleasure.
But will farsightedness solve the problem if it cannot see far enough to
pass beyond valuable means to an intrinsically valuable end?

That the methods of science cannot be applied in the determination of
ethical principles can best be appreciated if one keeps clearly in mind the
specific results Dewey thinks he has obtained by his methods. And to make
the discussion still more concrete, the ideals mentioned by one of Dewey's
wholehearted and influential disciples - Professor William Heard Kilpatrick -
will be added to the list. In every case the question must be: Does
scientific method show whether this ideal is good or evil?

For one thing, Dewey repudiates the aims of private, one-sided
advantage: "a personal end is repulsive." An Instrumentalist theory of truth,
he complains, has too often been thought of in terms of satisfying some
purely personal need. This is a mistake. The satisfaction that
Instrumentalism provides, Dewey explains, is "a satisfaction of the needs
and conditions of the problem out of which the idea, the purpose and
method of action, arises. It includes public and objective conditions."

Superficially, at least, this much may be admitted. Whether I am
developing new vaccines or investing in the stock market, there is plenty of
stubborn objectivity to be taken into account. And in this sense the problem
has "needs and conditions" which must be satisfied. But what shall be said
of the prior choice between developing vaccines and investing in the stock
market? The former presumably is not privately or personally motivated
(though of course it may be), and the latter is as good an example as any
of purely personal satisfaction. But what procedure of science - either
biological science or economic science, not to mention physics and

chemistry - demonstrates empirically that a purely private end is
repulsive? Certainly there is here an unbridged gap between Dewey's
premises and his conclusion; and it would seem that the gap is
unbridgeable. Egoism is not so easily refuted.

If a broad rejection of personal aims is too vague, Dewey also has more
specific ideals. He mentions health, wealth, friendship, industry,
temperance, courtesy, learning, and initiative, as well as lighting, heating,
and transportation.]]?] These specifications are indeed sufficiently definite;
and as they are typical, they go a long way toward rescuing ethics from the
bog of eternal values, if not from the rigidity of fixed truths.

Kilpatrick is similarly specific. Bodily health and vigor is a good that no
modern-minded man would deny. A well-adjusted personality, satisfying
personal relationships, meaningful work as opposed to a life of leisure,
music, an adequate social life, and a non-supernatural religion are examples
of Kilpatrick's twelve constituents of the good life. Morality is whatever
advances this good life.[9]

Further specific ideals can be inferred from his deprecation of ancient
Sparta's military system and his praise of Periclean Athens . \ 101 He is also
explicitly opposed to racial discrimination; fill he holds that laissez-faire is
an evil, [12] as is also the old-fashioned Americanism that believed in the
government's duty to protect private property and to maintain inalienable
rights .[13]

Most emphatically he is opposed to religious liberty. Not only would he
prevent religious groups from maintaining schools and colleges, [14] he
believes it is "undemocratic" to allow parents to teach the doctrines of
their religion to their own children. Apparently the government, as in Russia,
should invade the home and enforce belief in humanistic secularism.

Two questions, however: Was it the scientific method that selected
these ideals, and was it laboratory procedure that proved their desirability?
Or are these ideals the evil ideals of secular bigotry?

Murder

Dewey, as was said before, admits that some aims are evil. In one of his
books he asserts that no honest person can convince himself that murder
would have beneficial consequences, and he also adds that a normal person
will immediately resent an act of wanton cruelty. There are, nonetheless, a
large number of people, presumably abnormal, who enjoy bullfights. But

Dewey stakes his claim on normal people, who are fair-minded.

Philosophically this begs the question. The members of the S.P.C.A.
regard bullfight fans as a low breed of humanity. In return, the latter
believe that the former just do not have a normal sense of fun. On what
basis then is this disagreement to be resolved? Must not one first define
the right and good, and only on this basis decide who is normal and fair-
minded? Or can we simply say that these honorific designations are to be
applied to the preferences of the majority? The plausibility that a normal
person resents wanton cruelty and condemns murder lies in the fact that
the statement is true in the United States, at the present time, because of
our Christian heritage. But it is not true in Communistic countries. There
murder and massacre are definitely accepted as having very beneficial
consequences. Now, if Dewey and Kilpatrick succeed in destroying
Christianity by prohibiting parents to give their children religious instruction,
could anyone be sure that massacre would still be thought wrong?

One difficulty here is that Dewey assumes a universal moral agreement,
whether on murder or on bullfights, where none or little exists; and the
reader is expected to accept the assumption without question. Dewey's
statement about murder and wanton cruelty is not only factually untrue, but
it also begs the question because he has nowhere produced scientific
evidence that murder never has beneficial results. Nor can his own
principles consist with such a fixed moral norm as this would be, if it could
be proved. Dewey's insistence on the tentativeness of all practical
hypotheses requires him to admit that wanton cruelty may someday be the
most efficient means to a social goal.

This emphasis on the disagreement about murder, the disagreement
between Spanish bullfighters and Puritans, between Christian parents and
Kilpatrick, between any two incompatible ideals underscores the most
serious flaw in Dewey's philosophy. To resolve such disagreements, Dewey
must promise that science will decide between the aims of parents versus
the aims of secular educators. In general, Dewey's assumption is that
science can produce well-nigh universal moral agreement. Or, at the very
least, science can determine values. But Dewey has failed the test at its
easiest point. Was not murder the clearest example of evil - an example
that every fair-minded person would agree to? Yet Dewey has not
succeeded in showing how this moral judgment can be justified by scientific
procedure. Indeed, for all his insistence that science can solve all problems

and that values can only arise through relating means to proximate ends,
Dewey, so far as I know, has not given a single instance of thus
discovering a value. He seems to admit as much.£15] But is it unreasonable
to ask for just one instance?

Is Life Worth Living?

One critic of Dewey remarked that however much Instrumentalism
asserts universal flux, the system has one eternal, fixed, unchangeable
absolute: the value of inquiry, the importance of solving problems. Behind
this fixed truth is the more general principle that life is worth living. Surely
this point ought not to be evaded and passed over in silence. It has been a
matter of disagreement. It marks out an indeterminate situation. It should
be a subject of inquiry, requiring a solution in terms of some idea that is a
plan of action. Nor is it an artificial problem. Many men face it under
various forms.

In the twentieth century, the form in which death becomes a live option
for many materializes under totalitarian oppression. Thousands have risked
death by fleeing through the Iron Curtain of barbed wire and machine gun
bullets. Other thousands met death in the Hungarian bid for freedom. All of
these would doubtless have preferred to live, but by risking death they
showed that they thought that life was not worth living under Communism.
There is also a smaller number who have committed suicide. Then, too,
there are others who have committed suicide without having been driven to
it by such oppression. Several of the Stoics decided that it was better to
die than live. In the United States also the suicide rate has risen sharply
during the last fifty years. The value of life, therefore, is not an artificial
problem, and Instrumentalism is obliged to defend its optimistic or at least
melioristic attitude. Christianity with its revelational basis asserts that
suicide is immoral; but what can be said by an empirical, descriptive
philosophy?

This question of suicide is not to be understood as just one detail among
many. It is not as though we had canvassed the merits of stealing, lying,
adultery, murder, and - oh yes, there is one more - suicide. On the
contrary, the mention of suicide is intended to bring to the fore the
absolutely indispensable prerequisite of all other ethical decisions. Theft
versus honesty and cruelty versus kindness are possible choices only if we
have previously decided to continue living. On what basis, therefore, can it

be shown that life is worth the time and trouble?

The value of life, and therefore the manner of living it when suicide is
ruled out, is not the matter of exuberant agreement that Dewey seems to
assume. All that Dewey takes so wholeheartedly for granted has been
vigorously denied and attacked by thinkers of world renown and by
significant portions of the human race. Buddhism, for instance, holds that
pain is a necessary element in the universal process; desire is the cause of
pain; and suppression of desire, completed in the unconsciousness of
Nirvana, is the only remedy for pain. A Buddhist would probably say that
these principles are such obvious conclusions from an observation of the
world that only the willfully blind can fail to see them.

In the Western world this view was adopted by Arthur Schopenhauer.
True, neither the Buddhists nor Schopenhauer believed that suicide is the
proper solution. Nevertheless, it should be clearly kept in mind that the type
of life that follows from a pessimistic principle must be vastly different
from that based on a confident meliorism.

Hence a first conclusion is inescapable. Those moralists who have
proceeded as if all men agree on what is desirable must be judged to have
failed. They must be forced to open their eyes and face the basic problems.
Not only must they be forced to explain why, instead of brutality and
totalitarianism, they prefer certain elements salvaged from Christian
morality; but they must also be forced to justify life itself. This they have
not done, and therefore their systems are failures.

Concluding Criticism

To return to Dewey's main thesis that science can solve the problem of
morality, the criticism that has controlled the argument all along is twofold.
First, scientific method does not justify the ideals of Dewey and Kilpatrick;
and, second, scientific method cannot justify any ideal.

Though the first point is of lesser logical importance, it is not without ad
hominem value, and, in addition, it may perhaps find more ready
acceptance. For scientists as well as the average citizen can see clearly
that there is nothing in laboratory methods that demands as an ideal the
governmental suppression of religion.

True, there is a "scientism," adopted by the Communists, that holds
religion to be an opiate. This atheism would limit all aims and ideals to this
world; there is no supernatural realm, no life after death, no future world.

And since this is an absolute fixed truth, Commissars are justified in
preventing parents from teaching religion to their children. But the
argument that leads from a description of laboratory methods to the
conclusion that secularism is desirable does not exist.

Even if it could be shown - as indeed it cannot - that laboratory methods
validly imply secularistic totalitarianism, the latter would not thereby
become ideal. In such a case, many people would choose more freedom and
less science. The physical discomforts of a pre-scientific society are minor
in comparison with the spiritual torture of an inquisitorial bureaucracy.

The gap between the premises of scientific method and the ideals which
Dewey and Kilpatrick offer as conclusions is no less real, if a trifle less
evident, in the case of health and transportation than in the case of
religious liberty. Good health and speedy transportation have not been made
desirable by any increase of scientific technique. They were not in the first
place chosen as ideal because of any incipient scientific knowledge.
Obviously science has done wonders in medicine and has increased the
speed of transportation beyond the imagination even of Jules Verne; but
science neither causes men to desire them nor causes them to be
desirable. On the contrary, it is because men chose them as ideals that
scientists began to look for means of securing them.

Indeed, the more science is stressed as instrumental, the more evident it
should be that it cannot establish ends or ideals.

This is the second part of the concluding criticism. Scientific method can
produce no ideals whatever. Science is instrumental. If a group of educators
wish to extinguish religious liberty, a scientific attention to the details, and
relationships of psychology, sociology, and politics will help them to their
end. The same scientific technique can be used for the opposite purpose.
The techniques of medicine can cure diseases that were usually fatal a
century ago; but this same technical knowledge can just as easily be used
to produce these diseases. In fact, cancer research at present is largely
interested in producing cancer. But no instrumental technique, whether
medical or political, can furnish any basis for deciding how to use it.

Therefore, the contemporary humanist attempt to solve the problems of
ethics by the application of scientific methods must, fortunately, be
adjudged a failure.

Since too this criticism engulfs previous secular theories, such as
Utilitarianism, it seems to follow that a more sympathetic consideration

ought to be given to divine revelation than is customary in the universities
of our land. To a discussion of Christian ethics therefore, we now turn.

Christian Ethics

At the end of the first chapter it was said that solutions or conclusions
can be based only upon definite premises. Scattered observations, mystical
insights, and poorly defined generalizations make no logical appeal. The
present volume, therefore, is based upon the truth of the Bible; and
because of faulty interpretations and inconsistent formulations, the sense
of the Bible is determined by the Westminster Confession. No apology is
offered for this procedure; it seems only honest to state the premises of
the argument.

The Divine Legislator

It will of course be universally admitted that the Bible presents God as
the moral governor and judge of the world. The Bible contains commands,
precepts, laws; warnings, assurances, exhortations; the threat of
punishment and the promise of Heaven. For the present purpose, however,
it is another of God's prerogatives that needs emphasis. Not only is God the
governor and judge; prior to this he is the legislator. It is his will that
establishes the distinction between good and evil, right and wrong; it is his
will that sets the norms of righteous conduct. For those unfamiliar with the
history of the subject, this thought must be somewhat developed.

In Plato's Euthyphro, Socrates asks the young man what is pious or right.
After the usual confusion between example and definition is cleared up,
Socrates elicits the answer that piety is that which is dear to the gods.
Greek polytheism must worry with the possibility that the gods may
disagree, but this part of the dialogue is not needed here. What is of
permanent importance is Socrates' next question: Is an act holy and pious
because it is dear to the gods, or is an act dear to the gods because it is
holy?

At this point Plato's treatment of the difficulty becomes extremely
instructive. Utilizing the inductive method common to the early dialogues,
Socrates continues: We speak of being carried and of carrying, of being led
and of leading, of being seen and of seeing; then too we conceive of being
loved and of loving. Now, tell me, says Socrates, is a thing which is carried
a carried thing because someone carries it, or does someone carry it

because it is a carried thing? Again, is a thing which is seen a seen thing
because someone sees it, or does someone see it because it is a seen
thing? The answers of course are obvious. Similarly, a thing is loved or
beloved because someone loves it; it is not loved because it is beloved.

Here it may be better to quote exactly:

What then shall we say about the pious, Euthyphro? You admit that it is a thing
loved by all the gods, do you not?

Yes.

Is it loved by the gods because it is pious, or for some other reason?

No; but for this reason.

Therefore it is loved because it is pious; but it is not pious because it is loved.

So it seems.

But that which is dear to the gods and beloved of them is so because they love
it.

How could it be otherwise?

Then it follows that that which is dear to the gods, my Euthyphro, is
not the definition of piety.

The remarkable thing about this conversation is the complete absence of
argument on the essential point. Unlike the instances in the other dialogues,
the induction here has no connection whatever with the conclusion. In fact,
the induction, if carried out, would lead to exactly the opposite conclusion.
Plato merely asserts that the gods love piety because it is piety. No
reasons are given. He just could not imagine anyone's entertaining a
different opinion.

The conclusion is of course consistent with Plato's worldview. In the
Timaeus, the Demiurge - the personal divinity who fashions this physical
world out of chaotic Space - receives his plan of operation from an
independently existing world of Ideas. The maker of the visible world is not
the maker of these Ideas. Naturally Plato argued at length to establish the
theory of Ideas, but their relationship to the personal divinity seems to
have been decided upon from the time of the early dialogues.

In Christianity, and even in Philo Judaeus, this is reversed. God is
supreme, and any ideas that may be required are dependent upon what God
wills to think. God is the legislator, and piety is determined by his
preceptive decree.

Ethics and Theology

Before this Christian view is elucidated, one example of the Platonic
position in modern form should be given to heighten the contrast. Immanuel
Kant, although he did not accept the theory of Ideas, made it very clear
that theology cannot serve as a basis for ethics. With his categorical
imperative, he hoped to distinguish between a moral and an immoral act by
a purely logical analysis of the maxim of the act. Ought a person, he asks,
make a promise with the secret intention of breaking it? Is it permissible
to make a promise solely for the purpose of avoiding a present
unpleasantness?

Such questions are answered by an attempt to universalize the maxim
involved. In this case the maxim would be: It is right to make a promise
without intending to keep it so as to escape from a present
embarrassment. Can this be universalized? Can this be made into a
universal law without self-contradiction? No, says Kant, it cannot, because
if everyone made insincere promises, these promises would no longer serve
the purpose of avoiding embarrassment. No one would any longer be fooled
by them. They work only on the assumption that they are sincere.
Therefore, the maxim is self-contradictory or self-defeating. This for Kant
is the criterion of right and wrong. He makes no appeal to divine
commands, rewards, or punishments.

On the contrary, while theology makes no contribution to ethics, ethics is
a presupposition of theology. Just how seriously one should take Kant's
theological assertions, and whether he believed in a personal God or not
may be debatable; but if there is a theology, it would have to use ethics as
its basis. A knowledge of God must be derived, if at all, from a knowledge
of morality.

Kant, of course, was not a Christian. But by reason of certain historical
circumstances it has been possible for Christian writers to adopt a form of
Kantianism or Platonism in their defense of Christianity.

The historical circumstances are, briefly, the success of Christianity in
the Western world. Its influence is pervasive and its moral teachings have
been widely accepted. To such an extent has Christian morality been
accepted as the ideal that writers have argued: Since Christian standards
are the highest, the Christian religion must be true. The rightness of ethics
proves the truth of the theology. This defense of Christianity against its
enemies rests on the assumption of its moral excellence.

But if the premise be denied, what happens to the apologetics? There

may have been times and places in which no one would think of denying the
excellence of Christian standards. Since, however, this has not been the
case in China, for example, the argument could hardly have appeared
convincing to the Chinese. Today China is much closer to us. Indeed there
is no point in insisting on old heathen nations. English-speaking philosophers
daily contest the excellence of Christian morality. It is not necessary to
refer to Nietzsche - he wrote in German; the humanists discussed above
are equally good examples. When this fact is acknowledged, then the
argument from Christian ethics must be recognized as inverted. One cannot
argue the truth of Christianity on the basis of its ethics; one must defend
its ethics on the basis of its theological truth. The ethics is not a premise,
but a conclusion. Theology is basic.

No one with any Christian training would, I suppose, want to depreciate
morality. Nevertheless, it is quite possible so to exaggerate its importance,
so to misunderstand its relative place in philosophy, that only confusion
both moral and theoretical can result. This overemphasis on morality, so it
would seem, is an important contributory cause in the rise of modernism.
The authority of conscience was insisted on, a moral consciousness was
developed, ethical institutions were sought for. And as these aspects of
human nature - indispensable as they are - were continually brought
forward, they came to usurp the position of supreme judge.

An interesting, instructive, and important example of this type of
reasoning - taken from the heyday of its vigor - is found in Newman
Smyth. r 161 After quoting a Puritan theologian who said, "Godliness,
therefore, which is the practice of divine Truth, is the measure of all
intellectual truths"; Smyth continues, perhaps beyond the intention of the
Puritan, and says,

Old theology is always becoming new in the vitalizing influence of
ethics.... It is reason enough for doubting and for restudying any
traditional teaching or received word of doctrine if it be felt to harass
or to confuse the Christian conscience of an age. Nothing can abide as
true in theology which does not prove its genuineness under the ever
renewed searching of the Christian moral sense.... Still less can we
allow in Christian ethics any dogmatic belief which would put in bonds
the Christian ethical principle itself; as, for instance, the tenet that
morality is dependent upon the divine will.... Christian ethics cannot

consent to commit suicide in any supposed interest of theology.

Newman Smyth's appeal to the observable facts of a Christian
conscience leaves unanswered the difficulty of distinguishing a Christian
from a non-Christian conscience. When this issue is raised, theology must
enter as the decisive factor. Smyth's procedure is incapable of facing this
issue because of his neglect of Biblical revelation. He must assume that
somehow ethical norms can be distilled from conscience, failing to realize
that these norms have never been accepted where the Biblical theology has
not first been preached. And finally, his refusal to make the ethical principle
itself dependent on the divine will puts him, in this respect at least, on the
side of Plato and Kant.

In opposition to all this, the Christian - i.e., the Biblical view - is that
God is the legislator. Not Law, but the Lawgiver is supreme.

Divine Sovereignty

If then the personal God is supreme and all laws depend upon his
ordinance, it follows that there is no superior law to restrict his
sovereignty. Most people find it easy to conceive of God as having created
or established physical law by divine fiat. He might have created a different
kind of world, had he so desired. It does not seem to stretch the
imagination much to picture a world where freezing points are so arranged
that we would have to put water in the radiator to prevent the alcohol from
freezing. And why could not lead, like water, expand on cooling? Nor does it
bother some theologians to suppose that various details of the Mosaic ritual
might have been different. Instead of requiring the priests to carry the ark
on their shoulders, God might have forbidden this and ordered it to be borne
on a cart drawn by oxen. But for some peculiar reason people find difficulty
in applying the same consideration to ethics. Instead of recognizing God as
sovereign in the moral sphere, they want to subject him to some
independent, superior, Platonic law. This is inconsistent.

Yet at this point some very conscientious persons raise an apparently
serious objection to the view here outlined. If this view were true, they say,
honesty might not be the best policy. If morality depends purely on God's
ordinance, just as the laws of physics do, then possibly stealing would be
right and right would be wrong. Nevertheless, the fact that we have become
accustomed to given ethical standards is no reason for believing that God

had to make the world that way. Even if our moral opinions are correct, it
is no more a reason for so believing than our knowledge of physics is for
putting God under the compulsion of physical laws. Certainly in this world
honesty is best. But it is best precisely because God made the world that
way. Anything God does is right, because he does it; and had we no
knowledge of God we could not guess what sort of moral standards he
might set up for some hypothetical world not now in existence. The reason
we object to stealing or to any other sin is that we have learned that it is
contrary to God's ordinance. We must learn God's plan first and develop our
morality afterward. We must adjust our ethics to our theology, not vice
versa. We must argue, not from our moral standards to the truth of the
Bible, but from the truth of the Bible to the morality it upholds.

A word of caution is needed here. This discussion has no particular
bearing on the divine immutability. It was argued that God could have
created a different physical world, had he so desired. Nothing was said, one
way or the other, as to whether God could so desire. Possibly the
immutability of purpose and the eternality of the decrees imply that this is
the only possible world - a Calvinistic twist to a Spinozistic phrase. Yet if
this is so, and if it is meaningless to suppose that God could think
differently, the argument remains that morality as much as physics is what
it is because God thinks this way. As the Puritans used to say, God's
decree is simply God's decreeing.

Before the minimum of Biblical evidence for this view is set down, it can
well be noted that the discussion is not a dead echo from an ancient
Platonic past. Nor was it ended by Kant and Newman Smyth. Quite the
contrary, it is alive today and will remain so for the foreseeable future.

A Contemporary Example

Just one instance will be given. Dr. Edward John Carnell writes as
follows:

If we cannot anticipate the character of God by using elements
drawn from the moral and spiritual environment, then by the same
token we have no way of judging the character of God's
representatives, since this decision, though one step removed, involves
the same difficulty. Unless we can meaningfully anticipate God's
standards of rectitude, it may turn out that the book, the church, or

priestly caste that is least moral on human standards is the most
moral on divine standards; and we are once again left with
skepticism. [17]

This is the position against which the preceding argument has been
directed. In one sense the quotation contains nothing essentially new. But in
another respect there is something worth noting about it. It is the
statement of a professed evangelical of the twentieth century. Now,
however it might have been with sincere Christians of former ages, one
writing today might be expected to take note how this point of view has so
frequently been used to oppose Christianity. In fact, such was the intention
of John Stuart Mill, whom Dr. Carnell actually praises a few pages
previously.

Then, too, it was precisely by this method that Mary Baker Eddy sought
to refute the doctrine of the atonement. Propitiation, which Dr. Carnell
defends, seemed impossible to Mrs. Eddy. "Whoever believeth that wrath is
righteous or that divinity is appeased by human suffering does not
understand God" (Science and Health, chapter 2). Can this not fairly be
paraphrased, whoever believes that wrath is righteous has not meaningfully
anticipated God's standards of rectitude?

Similarly, Edwin A. Burtt condemns Christ because Christ's morals are
inferior to Burtt's humanistic socialism.

The possibility that the book, the church, or the priestly caste that is
least moral on human standards may be most moral on divine standards, is
an objection without force. Consider a devout Hindu woman of the last
century, who, with a conscience as void of offense as Paul's when
persecuting the early church, was sacrificing her infant child to her heathen
god. By all her human standards she was doing right, and it appeared to her
that the omission of this duty would be irreligious. Finally a Christian
missionary comes to her and tries to convince her that the book, the
church, and the priestly caste that she considers most moral are not so,
but that by divine standards what she thinks irreligious is right. What else
could a missionary do? Is this then an objection against Christianity?
Indeed it is to be expected that Christian morals will differ from what the
natural man anticipates.

Abraham, the Father of Us All

To make a clear contrast between the Platonic objection and the Biblical

position, and to give at least a minimum of direct Biblical support to God's
sovereignty in ethics, no better example can be found than that of
Abraham. Abraham has become a favorite subject of discussion in recent
times. Sometimes he is used to prove the superiority of Sumerian culture
over that of Canaan. Human sacrifice is supposed to have been transcended
in Ur, but in ruder Canaan it was still practiced. Abraham, then, raised the
culture of Canaan by not sacrificing Isaac. But if this were so, Abraham's
initial willingness to sacrifice Isaac would be inexplicable. Combined or
uncombined with this pagan sociological motif, other authors, among whom
first is Kierkegaard, see a conflict between religion and ethics. One writer
says,

Obviously, God's command to Abraham that he sacrifice his only son
was an immoral one, and it embarrasses not only the modern but also
troubled Abraham. And if we regard the command simply as God's
testing of Abraham and thus moralize the story, we have not faced the
issue raised by God's immoral command and his approval of Abraham's
obedience to it.

Admittedly the writer quoted makes some statements in the sequel that
modify to a degree the first impression of these sentences. But all such
interpretations complicate the story of Abraham by reading into it elements
that are not there. In particular, a conflict - a false conflict between
religion and ethics - is produced by the presupposition that God's command
to sacrifice Isaac was immoral. Where does the text make this assertion?
It may be true that the Sumerians regarded human sacrifice as immoral,
but the question is not one of Sumerian opinion. The question is, Was God's
command immoral?

The text itself tells us that God said to Abraham, "Take now your son,
your only son Isaac, whom you love... and offer him there as a burnt
offering on one of the mountains." Now, if Abraham had subscribed to the
principles of Professor Carnell, if he had made theology subsidiary to ethics,
if he had judged this command by an "anticipation" of God's standards of
rectitude, he would have concluded that this suggestion was coming, not
from God, but from Satan. If this were not the voice of Satan, if one could
not anticipate the nature of divine commands, then the voice that is least
moral by human standards might be the most moral by divine standards;
and since this cannot be true, the command to sacrifice Isaac did not come

from God.

Abraham, of course, did not at all argue in this vein. On the contrary, he
recognized that it was God's voice, and therefore he was prepared to obey,
no matter what the command was. No doubt God had previously forbidden
human sacrifice; and so long as that command remained in force, human
sacrifice was a sin. But if now, for some undetermined period of time, God
commands human sacrifice, then it becomes obligatory and right. No ethical
standard formulated through empirical observation, no, not even a previous
command of God himself, suffices for the repudiation of God's next
command.

This, however, does not mean that we are left with moral skepticism, as
Dr. Carnell claims. We are left with the definite commands of God. We
have his complete preceptive will in the Scriptures. Of course, if skepticism
means that man without a supernatural revelation cannot establish the
norms of morality, so be it. The analyses of the earlier sections are
supposed to have clinched that conclusion. Neither Utilitarianism, nor Kant,
nor Dewey can anticipate God's standards of rectitude. But the failure of
non-revelational ethics does not leave man without a knowledge of right and
wrong. If skepticism means that man can have no knowledge, then an
appeal to revelation, with its subordination of ethics to theology, is not
skepticism. But everything else is.

[1] See A Christian View of Men and Things: On Utilitarianism and Kant,
see chapter IV; on Brightman's theory of values, see chapter VI. See also
William James and John Dewey.

[2] The latest estimate on the number of Chinese killed by the Chinese
Communist government is between 60 and 80 million. - Editor.

[3] John Dewey, The Quest for Certainty, 252.

[4] John Dewey, Logic, The Theory of Inquiry, 216.

[5] John Dewey, The Quest for Certainty, 259.

[6] Gardner Williams, Humanistic Ethics, 55.

[7] John Dewey, Reconstruction in Philosophy, 124, 126, 157.

[8] John Dewey, Reconstruction in Philosophy, 166-169.

[9] William Heard Kilpatrick, Philosophy of Education, 97-98, 151-161.

[10] William Heard Kilpatrick, Philosophy of Education, 286-289.

[U] William Heard Kilpatrick, Philosophy of Education, 340.

[12] William Heard Kilpatrick, Philosophy of Education, 405.

[13] William Heard Kilpatrick, Philosophy of Education, 403, 54-55.

[14] William Heard Kilpatrick, Philosophy of Education, 254.

[15] See The Philosophy of John Dewey, edited by Paul Arthur Schilpp, 592.

[16] Newman Smyth, Christian Ethics, 1892, republished 1922.

[17] Edward John Carnell, Christian Commitment, 142.

God and Evil

In the background of every religious worldview there stands a frightening
spectre. An author may refrain from mentioning it; he may hope that his public
will forget to think about it; but no position is complete and none can be
unhesitatingly accepted until it makes a clear pronouncement on the problem of
evil.

Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought Death into the world, and all our woe ....

Sing heavenly muse....m

It is not, however, the sonorous phrases of a great poet nor even the
inspiration of a Muse that we need. Careful thought, clean-cut definitions,
and consistency to the end are the prerequisites of progress. The aim of
this chapter is to face the question of evil squarely, without dodging, and to
show that, whereas various other views disintegrate at this point, the
system known as Calvinism and expressed in the Westminster Confession
of Faith offers a satisfactory and completely logical answer.

Historical Exposition

To bring the matter into sharp focus and to set forth the main
difficulties, a representative selection will be made from the discussions of
history. In antiquity, evil was almost always viewed from the standpoint of
some sort of religion; at the present time, God is more frequently left out
of the picture. Although the presuppositions of this chapter are thoroughly
theistic, something will be said of non-theistic views, if only to indicate
that the problem of evil does not disappear with the acceptance of
secularism.

The problem, as it has usually been considered, is terrifyingly simple.
How can the existence of God be harmonized with the existence of evil?
There are plenty of evils. One of the Soviet secret police is quoted as
boasting that he had so refined torture that he could break every bone in a
man's body without killing him. And is there a God who looks down on this
from on high? By those who were religiously inclined the enigma has been
faced in fear and trembling; the irreligious - Voltaire, for example - with a
cry of triumph have spat it forth like the poison of asps. But whatever the
form, the issue is inescapable: How can the existence of God be reconciled

with the existence of evil?

In early Christian times Lactantius reports its prevalence. If God is good
and wants to eliminate sin, but cannot, he is not omnipotent; but if God is
omnipotent and can eliminate sin, but does not, he is not good. God cannot
be both omnipotent and good.

Although the Christian concept of God as omnipotent aggravates the
difficulty, man's trouble with evil - his intellectual trouble with evil - did
not begin with Christianity. Pain, disease, calamities, injustice, and woe
have impressed people of every religion. Some religions, of which
Zoroastrianism is one, concluded that the universe must be the work of two
independent, conflicting deities. Neither the good god nor the evil god is
omnipotent, and neither has as yet destroyed the other. On the surface,
this seems to account for the mixture of good and evil in the world; but
such ultimate and irreducible dualisms give rise to further riddles which
many philosophers have thought equally insoluble.

Plato in his Republic attempted to account for evil by the assumption
that God is not the cause of everything, but only of a few things - few
because our evils far outnumber our goods. In the Timaeus he was not
quite so pessimistic, but he still held that there is an eternal and chaotic
Space which the Demiurge cannot entirely control. To the end, therefore, it
must be said, Plato retained an unreconciled dualism.

Aristotle, because his philosophy is so completely irreligious, is
somewhat an exception in antiquity. He conceived God in such a way that
his relation to evil, or to the moral endeavors of men, hardly mattered. The
Unmoved Mover is in a sense the cause of all motion, but instead of being
an active cause, he causes motion by being the object of the world's desire.
He exercises no voluntary control over history. Though he is constantly
thinking, he does not seem to think about the world, or, at most, he knows
only a part of the past and nothing whatever of the future.

Naturally, the great Christian philosopher Augustine grappled with the
difficulty. Under Neoplatonic influence he taught that all existing things are
good; evil, therefore, does not exist - it is metaphysically unreal. Being
non-existent, it can have no cause, and God therefore is not the cause of
evil. When a man sins, it is a case of his choosing a lower good instead of
a higher good. This choice too has no efficient cause, although Augustine
assigns to it a deficient cause. In this way God was supposed to be
absolved. Augustine, admittedly, was a great Christian and a great

philosopher. Later in the chapter more will be said about him. But here he
was at his worst. Deficient causes, if there are such things, do not explain
why a good God does not abolish sin and guarantee that men always choose
the highest good.

This matter of evil is not an outmoded antiquity that evaporated with
Zoroaster, Aristotle, or Augustine. The twentieth century cannot evade it.
Therefore a few illustrations will be selected from contemporary writers.
Today, however, much of the discussion is secular in nature. Ether religion
is ignored, or, in some cases, Christianity is pointedly attacked.

Lucius Garvin, John L. Mothershead, and Charles A. Baylis have each
written a textbook on ethics. These books are fairly well known in
American colleges today. Garvin has a very short section on theological
ethics, with a conclusion that suggests that God is not particularly
important; in the second textbook, the index has no entry at all for God;
and in the third, it seems that God is mentioned on only one page.
Nevertheless, secular ethics, although it will pay no attention to
omnipotence, must still consider determinism and must say something
about responsibility. An example of this type of thought will elucidate some
details of the main argument as well as serve as part of an historical
selection.

Professor Baylis of Duke University gives what many people will believe
to be a very plausible argument. If determinism is true, he says, then a
person's decisions reflect his character. The man's character causes and
explains his actions. Accordingly, if we know the particular weaknesses of a
man's character, we may be able - by praise, promises, threats, or
punishments - to alter his character, improve the man, and so produce
better decisions. Blame and punishment, therefore, which have the effect of
reforming a person, are justifiable; but retributive punishment will not be
justifiable, if determinism is true. The remote causes of a man's character
are far in the past and were never under his control. Therefore he is not
responsible for them, and therefore retributive punishment is illegitimate.
Dr. Baylis further insists that indeterminism also renders retributive
punishment illegitimate; and what is worse, indeterminism can provide only
a dubious justification for corrective punishment.

Another professor at Duke University furnishes an example of those who
pointedly attack Christianity. The argument comes from An Introduction to
the Philosophy of Religion, by Dr. Robert Leet Patterson.

To refer evil to a corrupt human nature transmitted from Adam,
Professor Patterson brands as "an odious doctrine which Pelagius, to his
honor, anticipated modern liberals in rejecting" (218n3). Besides, there is a
previous question. The author asks, "If it be as easy for God to create good
men as to create evil men, why did not God create all men good?" (173).
To suppose that God created the good and the evil for his own glory, to
bestow his love on the good and his wrath on the evil, is to lower God to
the level of the most degenerate human tyrant. Such an idea must be
decisively rejected, for, the author insists (177), God cannot be thought of
as immoral. Even if we believe, in the absence of all evidence, that every
occurrence of evil is essential to the realization of a greater good, the fact
that God could not produce the good without the previous evil indicates that
God's power is limited (179).

Today, then, as in the past, the existence of evil is a crucial question;
and the answer frequently includes the idea of a limited deity. Many modern
philosophers, such as John Stuart Mill, William Pepperell Montague, and
Georgia Harkness, as well as the ancient Zoroaster and Plato, accept a
finite god. But it must be clearly understood that this idea is incompatible
with Christianity. The Bible presents God as omnipotent, and only on this
basis can a Christian view of evil be worked out.

The idea of a finite god, although it is a non-Christian expedient, has
nonetheless a certain amount of merit by reason of its honesty. Professing
Christians are not always so frank. In a certain Christian college the head
of the Bible Department used to tell his students not to discuss the subject
(indeed, this was rather clearly the policy of the institution), for the subject
is controversial. It is also unedifying. And the professor should have added,
it is embarrassing. For when some pointed questions were asked him, he
grew irritated and replied, "I do not like the kind of questions you ask."
Perhaps such colleges think that if evil is never mentioned, the students
will never hear about it. They seem to forget that the secular enemies of
Christianity will soon remind them and ask them controversial, unedifying,
and embarrassing questions. Such an attitude of secrecy did not
characterize the great Christian theologians: Augustine, Aquinas, Calvin. We
may perhaps not agree with this one or that one, but like the modern
secularists they were open and honest. Before we drop the idea of a finite
god, however, there is one interesting consideration to mention. If the
mixture of good and evil in the world rules out the possibility of a good and

omnipotent God, and if the extent of good in the world hardly allows the
assumption of an infinite evil demon, it still does not follow that there is a
finite good God. A finite evil god is an equally acceptable conclusion.
Instead of saying that God does the best he can, but being limited he
cannot quite eliminate the evil in the world, we could just as well say that
God does the worst he can, but being limited he cannot quite eradicate the
forces of good which oppose his will. Evidently, therefore, the advocates of
a finite god arrive at their conclusion more by emotion than by reason.

Free Will

Because of God's omniscience, most probably, Augustine recognized that
the metaphysical unreality of evil and the supposition of deficient causes
were inadequate to dispose of the difficulties. Accordingly, he added a
theory of free will. From pagan antiquity, through the middle ages, on down
into modern times, free will has doubtless been the most popular solution
offered for the problem of evil. God is all-powerful, many people will say,
but he has adopted a hands-off policy and allows men to act apart from
divine influence. We choose, and we choose evil, of our own free wills; God
does not make us do so; therefore, we alone are responsible, and not God.

This theory of free will must now be carefully examined. Is it a
satisfactory theory? Do its proponents have an unambiguous concept of its
chief term? Is it true that the will is free? And if it is true, does free will
solve the problem of evil?

Augustine's formulation of the theory of free will, like many other of his
views, did not remain unaltered. In his pagan life he had been a
Manichaean; he had accepted an ultimate dualism of good and evil. After
his conversion, although he had a brilliant mind, he did not immediately see
the implications of the Biblical assertions so clearly as he did later in life.
It took time even for Augustine to develop.

His early view of free will seems to be that all men are completely
untrammeled in their decisions. Anyone can as easily choose this as that.
Neither divine grace nor any other force determines a man in either
direction. In his work on Free Will, he begins by wondering how it is
possible for all souls, seeing that they commit sin, to have come from God
without referring those sins back to God. In other words, if God created
souls which are now sinful, is not God responsible for sin? And to go
further, "I ask whether a free will itself, by which we are proved to have a

power to sin, should have been given us by him who made us. For it is
clear that if we were without free will we would not sin; and in this way it
is to be feared that God may be adjudged the author of our evil doing."[2]

To avoid this conclusion, the explanation (or at least a part of it), is that
without free will we could as little do good as evil. A being, such as a stone
or perhaps a bug, that cannot do evil is equally incapable of doing good. The
ability to do good or evil is one, and God is not to blame if man uses his
freedom wrongly. Free will may indeed do wrong, but there is no right
action without it. Even sin does not justify the assertion that it were better
if sinners did not exist. There must be all grades of being in the world.
Variety is essential. Even a soul that perseveres in sin is better than any
inanimate body that cannot sin because it has no will.

One must pause, however. From the metaphysical assumption that being
is better than non-being, does it follow that a sinner is better off than a
stone? What would Augustine have said if he had remembered Christ's
statement, "It would have been good for that man if he had not been born'?
Such questions come to mind, but the exposition of Augustine's views must
continue.

So far it would seem that free will is the property of all men. The very
possibility of doing either good or evil requires it. But toward the end of the
book Augustine introduces a thought which he expands in his later writings.
Noting that men now inevitably sin and cannot avoid it, he says, "When we
speak, then, of the will free to do right, we speak of the will in which man
first was made." [3] Thus it appears that no one now has a free will.

In the City of God (XXII, xxx), Augustine makes this point clearer. Adam
had free will in the sense that he was able not to sin. This presumably is
the popular notion of free will. Most people seem to mean by it that a man
is just as able to will one thing as its opposite. He is free, they say,
because he can choose to obey or to disobey God's commands. But by the
time that Augustine wrote the City of God he had learned enough about the
Bible, and about men too, to know that in this age it is impossible for
anyone not to sin. Sin is inevitable. Therefore the ability to do good or evil
is not one. Though the unregenerate do evil, they cannot do good. In the
future, when our redemption shall have been completed and we are glorified
in Heaven, another impossibility will appear. There we shall be unable to
sin. Again the ability to do good or evil is not one, for though we shall do
good, we shall not be able to do evil. There are thus three stages in the

total human drama: before the fall, posse non peccare (possible not to sin);
and in the world to come, non posse peccare (not possible to sin); but in
this present world, non posse non peccare (not possible not to sin). Adam,
therefore, was the only man who ever had free will - free will in the usual
sense of the term.

The phrase free will, however, had such attractive connotations that
Augustine did not wish to limit it to Adam. Hence he immediately
continues, "Is God himself in truth to be denied free will because he cannot
sin?" Augustine assumes that everyone will want to call God free. One may
ask the same question also about the righteous angels. But if God and the
angels have free will, free will must be re-defined so as to consist with a
denial that two incompatible actions are equally possible. Free will must be
made consistent with inevitability and therefore will no longer bear its
common meaning.

Later writers also have made a point of the fixed and determined felicity
of the future state, and it might be worth a parenthetical paragraph to
pause for a reference to the Puritan John Gill. In The Cause of God and
T ruth he writes,

God is a most free agent, and liberty in him is in its utmost perfection, and yet
does not lie in an indifference to good and evil; he has no freedom to that which is
evil... his will is determined only to that which is good; he can do no other... and
what he does, he does freely and yet necessarily.... The human nature of Christ,
or the man Christ Jesus, who, as he was born without sin and lived without it all his
days on Earth, so was impeccable, could not sin. He lay under some kind of
necessity ...to fulfill all righteousness; and yet he did it most freely and
voluntarily: which proves that the liberty of mank will... is consistent with some
kind of necessity.... The good angels, holy and elect, who are confirmed in the
state in which they are... cannot sin or fall from that happy state, yet perform
their whole obedience to God, do his will and work cheerfully and willingly.... In
the state of glorification the saints will be im peccable, cannot sin, can only do that
which is good, and yet what they do, or will do, is and will be done with the
utmost freedom and liberty of their wills; whence it follows that the liberty of
man’s will. ..is consistent both with some kind of necessity and a determination to
one.[£[

This effectively disposes of Augustine's early contention that one must
be able to sin in order to do anything good; it also leaves free will in a
dubious condition.

In this material from Augustine and John Gill two important points
emerge. The first is that the Bible does not teach the equal possibility of
two incompatible choices. Even if some perverse misinterpreter should still
contend that the ability to do good or evil is one, the meaning of the denial
is plain and unambiguous. The second point that emerges from the
preceding discussion is, however, a matter of ambiguity. Free will has been
defined as the equal ability, under given circumstances, to choose either of
two courses of action. No antecedent power determines the choice.
Whatever motives or inclinations a man may have, or whatever
inducements may be laid before him that might seem to turn him in a
certain direction, he may at a moment disregard them all and do the
opposite. This definition or description, however, is what the present writer
believes to be the common notion of free will. It is not the definition found
in Augustine or John Gill. Indeed these two writers do not give a formal
definition of free will. Strange though it may seem to a logician, many
writers do not define their terms with great care; and the reader is
unfortunately left to guess at the meaning. An Arminian reading The Cause
of God and Truth might very well wonder what its author could possibly
mean by liberty and freedom. Nor would his perplexity be entirely
unjustified. The Puritan speaks of a will that is both free and determined;
he refers to actions that are done freely, yet necessarily; and he concludes
that the liberty of a man's will is consistent with at least some kind of
necessity and determination. But the Arminian reader feels himself almost
necessitated to judge that this makes no sense. Are not necessity and
freedom incompatible? Is it remotely possible that both could be attributed
to the same action, choice, or will?

The explanation, of course, lies in the fact that the Arminian has a
different notion of freedom from that of John Gill. And perhaps he is
unaware that in the history of philosophy, freedom of choice has been
defined in several different ways. One should never suppose that a phrase
or a term means the same thing in every book in which it occurs. Each
author chooses the meaning he desires, and each reader ought to try to
determine what that meaning is. To be sure, the author ought not to try to
make this task difficult, and Gill and others of his day should have said
more clearly what they meant. Strict definitions and strict adherence to
them are essential to intelligible discussion. If one contender has one idea
in mind - or perhaps no clear idea at all, while the other party to the

debate entertains a different notion, or is equally vague - the result of the
conversation is bound to be complete confusion. This is the elementary
lesson that Socrates taught in the fifth century before Christ, but many
people have not learned it yet.

In accord with common opinion, the phrase free will shall here henceforth
be used to indicate the theory that a man faced with incompatible courses
of action is as able to choose any one as well as any other. It may be
necessary in quoting previous authors to use the phrase in another sense, if
they so used it; but the argument of this chapter will restrict the phrase
free will to the above definition. This is done in the belief that no Arminian
will object. He can make no accusation that his case is prejudged by a
surreptitious introduction of a Calvinistic element into the chief term. Free
will is defined with all the freedom that any Arminian could desire.

It might seem that here is the proper place to ask the question, Does
man have a free will? Is it true that his choices are not determined by
motives, by inducements, or by his settled character? Can a person resist
God's grace and power and make an uncaused decision? However, these
questions will not be answered here. They will be discussed later. The next
step in the argument is a slightly different one. Let us assume that man's
will is free; let us assume that these questions have been answered in the
affirmative; it would still remain to be shown that free will solves the
problem of evil. This then is the immediate inquiry. Is the theory of free
will, even if true, a satisfactory explanation of evil in a world created by
God? Reasons, compelling reasons, will now be given for a negative answer.
Even if men were as able to choose good as evil, even if a sinner could
choose Christ as easily as he could reject him, it would be totally irrelevant
to the fundamental problem. Free will was put forward to relieve God of
responsibility for sin. But this it does not do.

Suppose there were a lifeguard stationed on a dangerous beach. In the
breakers a boy is being sucked out to sea by the strong undertow. He
cannot swim. He will drown without powerful aid. It will have to be
powerful, for as drowning sinners do, he will struggle against his rescuer.
But the lifeguard simply sits on his high chair and watches him drown.
Perhaps he may shout a few words of advice and tell him to exercise his
free will. After all, it was of his own free will that the boy went into the
surf. The guard did not push him in nor interfere with him in any way. The
guard merely permitted him to go in and permitted him to drown. Would an

Arminian now conclude that the lifeguard thus escapes culpability?

This illustration, with its finite limitations, is damaging enough as it is. It
shows that permission of evil as contrasted with positive causality does
not relieve a lifeguard from responsibility. Similarly, if God merely permits
men to be engulfed in sin of their own free wills, the original objections of
Voltaire and Professor Patterson are not thereby met. This is what the
Arminian fails to notice. And yet the illustration does not do full justice to
the actual situation. For unlike the boy who exists in relative independence
of the lifeguard, in actuality God made the boy and the ocean, too. Now, if
the guard - who is not a creator at all - is responsible for permitting the
boy to drown, even if the boy is supposed to have entered the surf of his
own free will, does not God - who made them - appear in a worse light?
Surely an omnipotent God could have either made the boy a better
swimmer, or made the ocean less rough, or at least have saved him from
drowning.

Not only are free will and permission irrelevant to the problem of evil,
but, further, the idea of permission has no intelligible meaning. It is quite
within the range of possibility for a lifeguard to permit a man to drown.
This permission, however, depends on the fact that the ocean's undertow is
beyond the guard's control. If the guard had some giant suction device
which he operated so as to engulf the boy, one would call it murder, not
permission. The idea of permission is possible only where there is an
independent force, either the boy's force or the ocean's force. But this is
not the situation in the case of God and the universe. Nothing in the
universe can be independent of the omnipotent Creator, for in him we live
and move and have our being. Therefore the idea of permission makes no
sense when applied to God.

Such subterfuges must in all honesty be renounced. Consider two
quotations from Calvin:

Here they recur to the distinction between will and permission, and insist that
God permits the destruction of the impious, but does not will it. But what reason
shall we assign for his permitting it, but because it is his will? It is not probable,
however, that man procured his own destruction by the mere permission, without
any appointment, of God; as though God had not determined what he would
choose to be the condition of the principal of his creatures. I shall not hesitate
therefore to confess plainly with Augustine, “that the will of God is the necessity
of things, and that what he has willed will necessarily come to pass.”

God is very frequently said to blind and harden the reprobate, and to turn,
incline, and influence their hearts, as I have elsewhere more fully stated. But it
affords no explication of the nature of this influence to resort to prescience or
permission.... For the execution of his judgments, he, by means of Satan, the
minister of his wrath, directs their counsels to what he pleases and excites their
wills and strengthens their efforts. Thus when Moses relates that Sihon the king
would not grant a free passage to the people, because God had “hardened his
spirit and made his heart obstinate,” he immediately subjoins the end of Godk
design: “That he might deliver him into thy hand.” Since God willed his
destruction, the obduration of his heart therefore was the divine preparation for
his ruin.r5j

Thus the futility of free will is established. Some other theory must be
sought. And in the production of that theory it will become evident that free
will is not only futile but false. Certainly, if the Bible is the Word of God,
free will is false; for the Bible consistently denies free will. Therefore, the
attempt will now be made to explain evil on the basis of historic
Protestantism.

Reformation Theology

So far this chapter has stated the paradox or antithesis between an
omnipotent good God and the existence of evil. If free will cannot resolve
the difficulty, one must turn to the opposite theory of determinism. At
first, determinism, instead of alleviating the situation, seems to accentuate
the problem of evil by maintaining the inevitability of every event; and not
only the inevitability, but also the further and more embarrassing point that
it is God himself who determines or decrees every action.

Some Calvinists prefer to avoid the word determinism. For some reason
it seems to them to carry unpleasant connotations. However, the Bible
speaks not only of predestination, usually with reference to eternal life, but
it also speaks of the foreordination or pre-determination of evil acts.
Therefore, deliberate avoidance of the word determinism would seem to be
less than forthright. This will be discussed still further later on. At the
moment, however, there is a preliminary question. Do the opposing views,
free will and determinism, form a complete disjunction?

The former holds that no human choice is determined; the latter that all
are. Is there not a third possibility? Could it not be that some events or
choices are determined and some are not? Such a third possibility, however,
could contribute nothing to this discussion. Aside from the peculiarity of

assigning a semi-sovereignty to God and to man a semi-free will, the crux
of the conflict lies in choices that cannot be split in half. Could Judas have
chosen not to betray Christ? If he could have chosen not to betray Christ,
his moral responsibility is established, says the Arminian; but, says the
Calvinist, prophecy in such a case could have proved false. Or, again, could
Pilate have decided to release Jesus? Are we prepared to say that God
could not make sure of the necessary events in his plan of redemption?
Besides, the Bible explicitly says, "Herod and Pontius Pilate, with the
Gentiles and the people of Israel, were gathered together to do whatever
your hand and your purpose determined before to be done" (Acts 4:27-28).
Here in these individual choices moral responsibility is pitted against the
success of God's eternal plan of redemption. There is therefore no use in
supposing some choices free and others determined. The Scriptures say
that this one choice was determined ahead of time, and the whole
theological and philosophical issue is found complete in this one choice.

It seems unnecessary to draw the contrast in any sharper terms. All the
elements are before us: free will, determinism, moral responsibility,
prophecy, and divine sovereignty versus a finite god. What is now necessary
consists of three points which will provide the outline for the remainder of
the chapter. First, some extensive explanation and argument in defense of
Calvinism must be given; second, a definitive and official statement of the
position should be provided; and third, a few historical assertions are
demanded by the widespread ignorance of the twentieth century. These
three points will be taken up in reverse order.

The low educational level of the present day, even among college people,
was brought home to the present writer when he was asked to give an
account of Calvinism to a group of students in a so-called Christian college.
The talk was nothing more than the simplest and most elementary
exposition of the famous five points. But at the end it became clear, with
respect to the middle three - i.e., unconditional election, limited atonement,
and irresistible grace - not only that the students had never heard of such
doctrines before, but that they were shocked that any professing Christian
could possibly believe them. For two or three hundred years after the
Reformation there was hardly a place or a section of the people in any of
the Protestant nations that did not have a rudimentary knowledge of
Calvinism. They may not all have believed the doctrines, but at least they
had heard them preached. In the twentieth century, however, Christian

knowledge has sunk to a very low level. Calvinism, of course, is not totally
extinguished, but many people who think of themselves as educated
Christians have never heard of it.

Today, therefore, we must insist that irresistible grace and divine
determination were solid articles of the Reformation faith. Nor was it the
Reformers who first discovered them.

Augustus M. Toplady, the author of that most beloved of all hymns, Rock
of Ages, also wrote a good-sized volume on the Historic Proof of the
Doctrinal Calvinism of the Church of England. A few pages later, he will be
mentioned again more definitely with the main point of his book as stated
in its title. But here attention is called to his long introductory section in
which he shows that Calvinism was not unknown either in the patristic
period or in the middle ages.

Toplady believed that the epistle of Barnabas was actually written by
Barnabas. If he is mistaken in this belief, the epistle is a still more
noteworthy testimony to the doctrinal character of the subapostolic age.
The following quotation seems to reflect the idea of irresistible grace and
would therefore be inconsistent with free will: "When Christ chose his own
Apostles who were to preach his gospel, he chose them when they were
wickeder than all wickedness itself..." According to the same author,
Christ's death was necessary because it was prophesied. And there is a
fairly clear statement of limited atonement: "Let us rest assured, that the
Son of God could not have suffered but for us." To the same effect he
imagines Christ answering a question with the words, "I am to offer up my
flesh as a sacrifice for the sins of the new people." A certain Menardus,
commenting on this passage, complains that Barnabas was here mistaken
because Christ did not die for a new people but for the whole world. The
comment only emphasizes what Barnabas actually meant. A further
negative note on free will is found in the words, "We.. .speak as the Lord
wills us to speak. For that end he both circumcized our ears and our hearts
that we might understand these things. "[6]

Clement of Rome makes some very definite statements:

It being the will of God that all his beloved ones should be made partakers of
repentance, he has established them firmly by his own Almighty purpose.

By the word of his Maj esty he has established all things. ... Who shall say unto
him. What have you done? Or who shall resist the might of his power? He has
done all things at what season he pleased, and in what manner he pleased; and not

one of the things which have been decreed by him shall pass away. All things are
open to his view, nor has anything absconded from his will and pleasured?!

Ignatius begins his Epistle to the Ephesians, "Ignatius... predestinated
ever, before time, unto the glory which is perpetual and unchangeable,
united and chosen... by the will of the Father." He introduces his Epistle to
the Romans with the words, "Enlightened by the will of him who has willed
all things." And in opposition to free will he says, "A Christian is not the
workmanship of suasion, but of greatness [power]." [8]

Perhaps it is better known, at least by these who have read some
medieval history, that the martyr Gottschalk was a strong Calvinist.
Speaking of the reprobate Jews he says, "Our Lord perceived that they were
predestinated to everlasting destruction, and were not purchased with the
price of his blood. 'T9] After twenty-one years of imprisonment and torture
at the hands of Bishop Hincmar for his belief in double predestination, he
died ad 870.

Less well known is a contemporary of Gottschalk, Remigus, Archbishop
of Lyons. He wrote,

Nor is it possible for any one elect person to perish, or that any of the
reprobate should be saved, because of their hardness and impenitency of heart....
Almighty God did, from the beginning, prior to the formation of the world, and
before he had made any thing, predestinate... some certain persons to glory, of
his own gratuitous favor.... Other certain persons he has predestinated to
perdition... and of these, none can be saved. lTOI

The Waldensians were a group whose origin Toplady puts early in the
middle ages. He quotes from their Confession of 1508: "It is manifest that
such only as are elected to glory become partakers of true faith."

A hundred years before the Reformation, Jan Hus said, "Predestination
does make a man a member of the universal Church.. ..God wills that the
predestinate shall have perpetual blessedness, and the reprobate to have
eternal fire. The predestinate cannot fall from qrace/ Tlll Obviously there
is no free will here.

If Hus was burnt for the Gospel, John of Wesalia was tortured because
he held that "God has, from everlasting, written a book, wherein he has
inscribed all his elect; and whosoever is not already written there will never
be written there at all. Moreover, he that is written therein will never be
blotted out of it.' T 12]

After these continental Calvinists, Toplady turns to pre-Reformation

Englishmen. Venerable Bede said, "When Pelagius asserts that we are at
liberty to do one thing always [i.e., to do good], seeing we are always able
to do both one and the other [i.e., we have free will], he herein contradicts
the prophet, who, humbly addressing himself to God, says, 'I know, 0 Lord,
that a man's way is not his own; it is not in man that walks to direct his
own steps. " T 131

Thomas Bradwardine, the teacher of John Wycliffe, wrote,

What multitudes, O Lord, at this day, join hands with Pelagius in contending
for free will and in fighting against thy absolutely free grace.... Some more
haughty than Lucifer, ...dread not to affirm, that, even in a common action, their
own will walks first, as an independent mistress, and that thy will follows after,
like an obsequious handmaid.... [T]he will of God is universally efficacious and
invincible, and necessitates as a cause. It cannot be impeded, much less can it be
defeated and made void, by any means whatever. r 14]

His pupil, John Wycliffe (ad 1320? - 1384), similarly declared, "In what
way soever God may declare his will by his after-discoveries of it in time:
still, his determination, concerning the event, took place before the world
was made; ergo, the event will surely follow. The necessity, therefore, of
the antecedent, holds no less irrefragably for the necessity of the
consequent."

Dr. Peter Heylin, an Arminian historian, admits that William Tyndal "has a
flying-out against free will" and taught that from predestination "it
springeth altogether whether we shall believe or not believe, be loosed from
sin or not be loosed; by which predestination our justifying and salvation
are clear taken out of our hands and put into the hands of God only." The
Arminian with his free will does not want his salvation put into the hands
of God only.

Patrick Hamilton's sentence of death read: "We, James, by the mercy of
God, Archbishop of St. Andrews, primate of Scotland, have found Master
Patrick Hamilton many ways inflamed with heresy.. .that man hath no free
will. "[15]

The struggles of these loyal exponents of the Gospel of free grace
culminated in the Protestant Reformation. At the Council of Trent, the
Roman Church officially repudiated the doctrines that put salvation into the
hands of God only. Rome chose free will and human merit. Luther and
Calvin continued the apostolic teaching. In our present century of ignorance,
one must insist that Luther as well as Calvin rejected the Pelagian-Romish-

Arminian view of man. It was Erasmus, the man who drew back from the
Reformation and made his peace with Rome, who defended free will. The
book that Luther wrote in reply to him is titled The Bondage of the Will. In
its Conclusion there is this sentence: "For if we believe it to be true that
God foreknows and foreordains all things, that he can neither be deceived
nor hindered in his prescience and predestination, and that nothing can take
place but according to his will. ..then there can be no free will in man, in
angel, or in any creature."

While the later Lutherans - under Phillip Melanchthon's compromising
spirit, which went so far as to seek reunion with Rome - abandoned many
of Luther's doctrines, it must be remembered that these matters were not
in dispute among Luther, Zwingli, and Calvin, nor among Ridley, Cranmer,
Latimer, Bucer, Zanchius, and Knox. The same is true of the victims of
Bloody Mary. Richard Woodman, who was burned at the stake with nine
other martyrs at Lewes in Sussex, answered his examiners: "If we have
free will, then our salvation cometh of ourselves: which is a great
blasphemy against God and his Word." Richard Gibson, examined by the
Bishop of London, was called upon to profess that "a man hath by God's
grace a free choice and will in his doing." Gibson denied the proposition and
was burned to death with two others in Smithfield. Thirty-four persons
were persecuted and expelled from the towns of Winston and Mendelsham,
because "they denied man's free will and held that the Pope's church did
err." If more evidence is desired for the Calvinism of the Reformation,
there is an abundance of it in the history books and in the original writings
of these faithful men.

In the non-Lutheran world the Reformation faith was first adulterated by
Arminius, who, influenced by Melanchthonian Lutheranism, rejected the
Reformed view of free grace and retreated to a more Romish or semi-
Pelagian position. The Synod of Dordt in 1618 condemned Arminius as a
corrupter of the faith, though it did not rise to the explicit heights of the
Westminster Assembly thirty years later. It is the latter's Confession that
is the highwater mark of Protestantism. No other creed is so detailed and
so true to the Scriptures. Therefore the present day reader is requested to
give exact attention to a quotation from the Westminster Confession.
Though some circumscribed souls may be astonished, this is what
Christianity is.

Chapter Three
Of God's Eternal Decree

I. God from all eternity did, by the most wise and holy counsel of his own
will, freely and unchangeably ordain whatsoever comes to pass; yet so, as
thereby neither is God the author of sin, nor is violence offered to the will of the
creatures, nor is the liberty or contingency of second causes taken away, but
rather established.

II. Although God knows whatsoever may or can come to pass upon all
supposed conditions, yet has he not decreed anything because he foresaw it as
future, or as that which would come to pass upon such conditions.

III. By the decree of God, for the manifestation of his glory, some men and
angels are predestinated unto everlasting life, and others foreordained to
everlasting death.

IV. These angels and men, thus predestinated and foreordained, are
particularly and unchangeably designed; and their number is so certain and
definite, that it cannot be either increased or diminished.

V. Those of mankind that are predestinated unto life, God, before the
foundation of the world was laid, according to his eternal and immutable purpose
and the secret counsel and good pleasure of his will, has chosen in Christ unto
everlasting glory, out of his mere free grace and love, without any foresight of
faith, or good works, or perseverance in either of them, or any other thing in the
creature, as conditions, or causes moving him thereunto; and all to the praise of
his glorious grace.

VI. As God has appointed the elect unto glory, so has he, by the eternal and
most free purpose of his will, foreordained all the means thereunto. Wherefore,
they who are elected, being fallen in Adam, are redeemed by Christ, are
effectually called unto faith in Christ by his Spirit working in due season, are
justified, adopted, sanctified, and kept by his power, through faith, unto salvation.
Neither are any other redeemed by Christ, effectually called, justified, adopted,
sanctified, and saved, but the elect only.

VII. The rest of mankind God was pleased, according to the unsearchable
counsel of his own will, whereby he extends or withholds mercy as he pleases,
for the glory of his sovereign power over his creatures, to pass by; and to ordain
them to dishonor and wrath for their sin, to the praise of his glorious justice.

VIII. The doctrine of this high mystery of predestination is to be handled with
special prudence and care, that men, attending the will of God revealed in his

word, and yielding obedience thereunto, may, from the certainty of their
effectual vocation, be assured of their eternal election. So shall this doctrine
afford matter of praise, reverence, and admiration of God, and of humility,
diligence, and abundant consolation to all that sincerely obey the Gospel.

This official statement of the original Protestant position, of the original
apostolic faith, concludes this historical section. The next step is to give
some of the arguments that support Calvinism and to apply these
considerations to the problem of evil.

Gill’s Exegesis

Although the Westminster Confession is the most detailed of all creeds,
it is still not a philosophic treatise. It is not a theodicy. It does not answer
objections. It is only a summary of the Biblical position. In this respect,
and so far as exegesis goes, Arminianism cannot compete. Not to suppose
that the Westminster divines were the only men who saw these teachings
in the Bible, one may refer again to John Gill's The Cause of God and Truth.
The first two parts of that work examine with great care more than a
hundred passages which Arminians had used in opposition to Calvinism.
Gill's exegesis is devastating.

Since the approximately 150 pages, double columns, of fairly dense type,
cannot be reproduced here, one example alone will be chosen. It is a verse
which, according to Gill, was frequently quoted by the Arminians of his day,
but quoted incorrectly, and which has been several times used against the
present writer: "0 Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you that kill the prophets, and
stone them that are sent to you, how often would I have gathered your
children together, even as a hen gathers her chickens under her wings, and
you would not!" (Matthew 23:37).

Concerning this verse John Gill observes,

Nothing is more common in the mouths and writings of the Arminians than
this Scripture, which they are ready to produce on every occasion against the
doctrines of election and reprobation, particular redemption, and the irresistible
power of God in conversion; and in favor of sufficient grace and of free will and
power in man; though to very little purpose, as will appear when the following
things are observed.

1. That by Jerusalem we are not to understand the city, nor all the inhabitants,
but the rulers and governors of it, both civil and ecclesiastical, especially the great
Sanhedrin, which was held in it, to whom best belong the descriptive characters of
killing the prophets and stoning such as were sent to them by God, and who are

manifestly distinguished from their children; it being usual to call such who were
the heads of the people, either in a civil or ecclesiastical sense, fathers, Acts 7:2,
and 22: 1, and such who were subjects and disciples, children, 19:44, Matthew
12:27, Isaiah 8:16, 18. Besides, our Lord’s discourse, throughout the whole
context, is directed to the Scribes and Pharisees, the ecclesiastical guides of the
people, and to whom the civil governors paid a special regard. Hence it is
manifest, that they are not the same persons whom Christ would have gathered,
who would not. It is not said, How often would I have gathered you, and ye
would not, as Dr. Whitby more than once inadvertently cites the text; nor, he
would have gathered Jerusalem and she would not, as the same author
transcribes it in another place; nor, he would have gathered them, thy children,
and they would not, in which form it is also sometimes expressed by him; but I
would have gathered thy children, and ye would not, which observation alone
is sufficient to destroy the argument founded on this passage in favor of free
will....

5. That in order to set aside and overthrow the doctrines of election,
reprobation, and particular redemption, it should be proved that Christ, as God,
would have gathered, not Jerusalem and the inhabitants thereof only, but all
mankind, even such as are not eventually saved, and that in a spiritual saving way
and manner to himself, of which there is not the least intimation in this text; and in
order to establish the resistibility of God’s grace, by the perverse will of man, so
as to become of no effect, it should be proved that Christ would have savingly
converted these persons, and they would not be converted; and that he bestowed
the same grace upon them he does bestow on others who are converted; whereas
the sum of this passage lies in these few words, that Christ, as man, out of a
compassionate regard for the people of the Jews, to whom he was sent, would
have gathered them together under his ministry, and have instructed them in the
knowledge of himself as Messiah; which, if they had only notionally received,
would have secured them as chickens under the hen from impending judgments
which afterwards fell on them; but their governors, and not they, would not, that
is, would not suffer them to be collected together in such a manner, and hindered
all they could, their giving any credit to him as the Messiah; though had it been
said and they would not, it would only have been a most sad instance of the
perverseness of the will of man, which often opposes his temporal as well as his
spiritual good.

On the ground of exegesis, therefore, Calvinism has nothing to fear; but
further development of the doctrine, the integration of one phase with

another, the application to the problem of evil, and the replies to objections
are left in the hands of theologians and philosophers of religion rather than
with exegetes or creedal assemblies. And it may be granted that John Gill's
theological elucidations, by reason of incomplete expression, absence of
definition, failure to foresee later scientific theories, and even quirks of his
own reasoning, are not always so successful as his exegesis of Scripture.

For example, when Dr. Whitby - John Gill's opponent - charges the
Calvinists with implying that God intends to damn the wicked (and certain
other matters that Dr. Whitby finds offensive), it is not sufficient to reply
with Gill that the Calvinists do not make these assertions. For, first,
possibly some of them do; and, second, even if no Calvinist made these
assertions, Dr. Whitby's horrors might be valid, though hitherto
unrecognized, implications from Calvinistic principles. A theologian is
therefore under obligation to answer the charge of inconsistency in such a
case, even though Dr. Whitby is himself many times more inconsistent. We
shall pass then from exegesis to theological discussion.

Omniscience

Not only does free will fail to relieve God of culpability, and permission
fail to coexist with omnipotence, but the Arminian position can find no
logical position for omniscience either. A Romanist-Arminian illustration is
that of an observer on a high cliff. On the road below, to the observer's
left, a car is being driven west. To the observer's right a car is coming
south. He can see and know that there will be a collision at the intersection
immediately beneath him. But his foreknowledge, so the argument runs,
does not cause the accident. Similiarly, God is supposed to know the future
without causing it.

The similarity, however, is deceptive on several points. A human observer
cannot really know that a collision will occur. Though it is unlikely, it is
possible for both cars to have blowouts before reaching the intersection and
swerve apart. It is also possible that the observer has misjudged the
speeds, in which case one car could slow down and the other accelerate, so
that they would not collide. The human observer, therefore, does not have
infallible foreknowledge.

No such mistakes can be assumed for God. The human observer may
make a probable guess that the accident will occur, and this guess does not
make the accident unavoidable; but if God knows, there is no possibility of

avoiding the accident. A hundred years before the drivers were born, there
was no possibility of avoiding the accident. There was no possibility that
either one of them could have chosen to stay home that day, to have driven
a different route, to have driven a different time, to have driven a different
speed. They could not have chosen otherwise than as they did. This means
either that they had no free will or that God did not know.

Suppose it be granted, just for the moment, that divine foreknowledge,
like human guesses, does not cause the foreknown event. Even so, if there
is foreknowledge, in contrast with fallible guesses, free will is impossible.
If man has free will, and things can be different, God cannot be omniscient.
Some Arminians have admitted this and have denied omniscience, but this
puts them obviously at odds with Biblical Christianity. There is also another
difficulty. If the Arminian or Romanist wishes to retain divine omniscience
and at the same time assert that foreknowledge has no causal efficacy, he
is put to it to explain how the collision was made certain a hundred years,
an eternity, before the drivers were born. If God did not arrange the
universe this way, who did?

If God did not arrange it this way, then there must be an independent
factor in the universe. And if there is such, one consequence and perhaps
two follow. First, the doctrine of creation must be abandoned. A creation ex
nihilo would be completely in God's control. Independent forces cannot be
created forces, and created forces cannot be independent. Then, second, if
the universe is not God's creation, his knowledge of it - past and future -
cannot depend on what he intends to do, but on his observation of how it
works. In such a case, how could we be sure that God's observations are
accurate? How could we be sure that these independent forces will not
later show an unsuspected twist that will falsify God's predictions? And,
finally, on this view God's knowledge would be empirical, rather than an
integral part of his essence, and thus he would be a dependent knower.
These objections are insurmountable. We can consistently believe in
creation, omnipotence, omniscience, and the divine decree. But we cannot
retain sanity and combine any one of these with free will 1161
Responsibility and Free Will

Free will, however, was introduced into the picture for very definite
reasons. Since it is so at variance with basic Christian doctrines, there
must have been exceptionally strong inducements for taking refuge in it.
These are the necessity of maintaining human responsibility for sin and of

preserving the righteousness of God. The Arminian may be willing to admit
that his view faces difficulties; but, he asks, can the Calvinist offer a
better escape? It is all well and good to show the conflict between
omnipotent creation and free will, but what about the conflict between
determinism and morality? Is it not better to take a strong stand for
morality and responsibility, even if we degrade God to a finite level, than to
defend omnipotence so as to undermine human morality and divine
holiness? In other words, since God cannot be both omnipotent and good, is
it not better to admit a finite god?

Perhaps one quotation may be allowed to document the dependence of
free will on the motive of responsibility, but before that is done, let it be
noted that there is no other motive. Could it be shown that man's
responsibility does not presuppose free will, theology would be freed from
all this confusion. No longer would one be required to hold half-heartedly to
one set of self-contradictory doctrines rather than to a second set of
equally contradictory doctrines. Nor would one be compelled to disguise the
obvious contradictions by the false piety of calling them mysteries. The
remainder of the argument will attempt to show that neither human
responsibility nor divine holiness requires free will. But first the quotation
just alluded to:

Throughout the whole history of philosophy and theology people have
wrangled over the question of free will. In general, the idealistic philosophies
have asserted that the human spirit must be in some sense free, while
materialistic philosophies have denied this freedom. Theology has clung
tenaciously to the belief that man is a “free moral agent” while at the same time
often asserting a doctrine of predestination which, taken at its face value, would
rigidly circumscribe man’s acts. The problem, though complex, is too
fundamental to be dodged.

We have seen that the possibility of moral or immoral action depends on the
power of choice. If all one’s acts are set and predetermined (either by the
structure of the material world or by the will of God) in such fashion that it is
impossible to act other than one does, quite obviously freedom disappears. With
the power of voluntary choice goes moral responsibility. One cannot consciously
choose to be good, nor choose to seek after God, unless he has the power to
choose not to do so. No moral quality attaches to my failure to steal the million
dollars that is outside my reach, but stealing becomes a moral question with me
when I have to decide whether to tell the store clerk he has given me too much

change. Likewise if I am “foreordained” to be saved or damned there is not
much use of my doing anything about my fate. If I have no freedom, I am not
responsible for my acts.

Theological determinism, or predestination, is a cardinal doctrine of
Mohammedanism. Islam means “submission” (to the will of Allah) and a
Moslem is “one who submits” to the fatalistic decrees of an arbitrary deity.
Christian theology in its earlier forms regarded God as equally peremptory
(though more ethical) in his decrees. Through the influence of illustrious Christian
theologians, notably Paul, Augustine, and Calvin, the doctrine of predestination
has profoundly influenced Christian thinking. While God’s omnipotence has thus
been emphasized, Godk freedom has been exalted at the expense of mank, and
the most inhuman acts have been glossed over as arising from the will of God.
But happily the doctrine of predestination is disappearing, at least in its application
to evils that are obviously preventable.

Some still hold that when the typhoid victim dies from lack of proper
sanitation, it happened because it was “to be.” There is a good deal of illogical
comfort in such a view. But not many, even of the most rigorous of Calvinists,
would now say that if a man gets drunkand shoots his family, it is the will of God
that he should do so. IT 71

The Will of God

This quotation shows clearly the moral motivation behind the theory of
free will; but at the same time it shows so much muddleheadedness,
misstatement of facts, and fallacious innuendo that before the argument
proceeds, one preliminary should be put out of the way. I wish very frankly
and pointedly to assert that if a man gets drunk and shoots his family, it
was the will of God that he should do so. The Scriptures leave no room for
doubt, as was made plain before, that it was God's will for Herod, Pilate,
and the Jews to crucify Christ. In Ephesians 1:11 Paul tells us that God
works all things, not some things only, after the counsel of his own will.
This is essential to the doctrine of creation. Before the world was made,
God knew everything that was to happen; with this knowledge he willed
that these things should come to pass. Only if God had been willing could
this world, or any world, in all its details, have been brought into existence.

The opponents may at this point claim that Calvinism introduces a self-
contradiction into the will of God. Is not murder contrary to the will of
God? How then can God will it?

Very easily. The term will is ambiguous. The Ten Commandments are

God's preceptive will. They command men to do this and to refrain from
that. They state what ought to be done; but they neither state nor cause
what is done. God's decretive will, however, as contrasted with his
precepts, causes every event. It would be conducive to clarity if the term
will were not applied to the precepts. Call the requirements of morality
commands, precepts, or laws; and reserve the term will for the divine
decree. These are two different things, and what looks like an opposition
between them is not a self-contradiction. The Jews ought not to have
demanded Christ's crucifixion. It was contrary to the moral law. But God
had decreed Christ's death from the foundation of the world. It may seem
strange at first that God would decree an immoral act, but the Bible shows
that he did. This point will be discussed more fully later on; but though it
may now seem strange, it should be clear at least that a clear definition of
terms by which two different things are not confused under one name
removes the charge of self-contradiction.

When the term will is used loosely there is also a second distinction that
must be made. One may speak of the secret will of God, and one may
speak of the revealed will of God. Those who saw self-contradiction in the
previous case would no doubt argue similarly on this point too. The
Arminian would say that God's will cannot contradict itself, and that
therefore his secret will cannot contradict his revealed will. Now, the
Calvinist would say the same thing; but he has a clearer notion of what
contradiction is, and what the Scriptures say. It was God's secret will that
Abraham should not sacrifice his son Isaac; but it was his revealed will
(for a time), his command, that he should do so. Superficially this seems
like a contradiction. But it is not. The statement or command, "Abraham,
sacrifice Isaac," does not contradict the statement, at that moment known
only to God, "I have decreed that Abraham shall not sacrifice his son." If
Arminians had a keener sense of logic, they would not be Arminians!

Puppets

Confusion sometimes borders on ridicule. To come one step nearer to the
question of human responsibility, another phrase from the opponents begs
for analysis. Among many others, Professor Stuart C. Hackett charges that
Calvinistic determinism reduces men to mere puppets.

Professor Hackett is engaged in resurrecting the theism of the
cosmological argument. In this endeavor he opposes a theory called

presuppositionalism on the ground that it is based on a previously adopted
theological position. This of course is what the present book has done;
these chapters have presuppositions and attention has been called to them;
but Professor Hackett's apparent inference is that such a procedure should
be avoided. Yet, strange to say, his final and clinching reason for rejecting
presuppositionalism is, "Thus the presuppositionalist approach lands one in
an extreme Calvinistic atmosphere. If one feels comfortable there, let him
remain with this God who has created rational men as mere puppets of his
sovereignty / T 181

Here there are two points. The minor point is that Professor Hackett in
arguing against presuppositionalism adopts his own presuppositions. Of
course, his presuppositions are Arminian, but even so he has not escaped
presuppositionalism. The major point, however, is that Calvinism is
supposed to reduce men to puppets.

Such an objection could arise only upon an ignorance of Puritan writings.
Perhaps the objector has seen a chapter in the Westminster Confession "On
Free Will"; or he may have read in the Shorter Catechism that our first
parents were left to the freedom of their own wills; then, without reading
the literature of that day, he assumes that official Calvinism is more
moderate than the view defended here, and that a denial of free will is
hyper-Calvinism. A creed, however, is not a detailed philosophic treatise,
and its phrases must be understood in the sense in which the authors
meant them. If this meaning is not clear from the creedal context itself, it
must be sought in the literature.

Now, the Westminster Confession indeed speaks of the natural liberty of
man's will. The first paragraph of Chapter IX is: "God has endued the will
of man with that natural liberty that is neither forced, nor, by any absolute
necessity of nature, determined to good or evil."

These phrases could seem to be accommodations to the theory of free
will, but they can seem so only because the meaning of the phrase
"absolute necessity of nature" has been mistaken. The Reformation
Principles, a part of the standards of the Reformed Presbyterian Church,
makes a clearer statement when it condemns as an error the view that
man "is necessarily impelled to choose or act as an unconscious machine."
Even the earlier seventeenth-century phrases must have seemed
unambiguous when they were written, for they were chosen against the
background of a century of discussion. They are certainly to be taken in a

sense consistent with the Confession's chapter on the divine decree. Here
again the Reformation Principles is quite clear, for the immediately
following error denounced is "that he can will or act independently of the
purpose or the providence of God." If the meaning of these phrases has
been forgotten by some present-day writers, the remedy lies in reading the
discussion of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

First, some material again from John Gill will be put in evidence. Gill is
chosen particularly because he was not a Presbyterian. It needs to be
recalled that these ideas were not limited to the Presbyterians. For Gill's
extended context, see The Cause of God and T ruth, Part III.

The actions of glorified saints, he says, are done in obedience to the will
of God; these acts proceed from the saints freely, though their wills are
immutably determined so that they can never do otherwise - sin is
impossible in Heaven. By these phrases Gill shows that the term freely is
consistent with immutable determinism.

That action, he says again, which is voluntarily committed against the
law of God is blameworthy, though the will may be influenced and
determined to it by the corruption of nature; because sin is no less sinful
because man has so corrupted his way that he cannot do otherwise. Thus
Gill connects responsibility with volition or will, but the will is not a free
will because the man cannot do otherwise.

In opposing the materialistic philosophy of Thomas Hobbes, John Gill
states that the question is whether all agents and events are predetermined
extrinsically without their own concurrence in the determination. The
dispute with Mr. Hobbes, he continues, is not about the power of the will to
do this or that, but about the natural liberty of the will. This line of
argument makes the natural liberty of the will to consist in its freedom
from extrinsic or materialistic causes. Hobbes, if anyone does, makes man
a puppet, because man's actions are completely determined by physico-
chemical causes. This is, of course, one form of determinism, but it has
never been Calvinistic determinism; and to charge against Calvinism what
may no doubt be properly charged against Hobbes only shows ignorance of
the Calvinistic position.

More at length, John Gill says that the necessity we contend for, that the
will of man lies under, is a necessity of immutability and infallibility with
respect to the divine decrees - which have their necessary, unchangeable,
and certain event: All which is consistent with the natural liberty of the

will. We say that the will is free from a necessity of coaction and force
and from a physical necessity of nature, such as that by which the Sun,
Moon, and stars move in their course.

Although this has not been a continuous, verbatim quotation, the
phraseology is Gill's; and as it is very instructive, it should be strictly
noted. The natural liberty of the will consists in a freedom from physical
necessity. Choice is not determined as the planetary motions are. Physical
or mechanical determinism, expressible in differential equations, is
applicable only to inanimate objects; but there is a psychological
determinism that is not mechanical or mathematical. The Calvinist
repudiates the former but accepts the latter. Hence he may without
inconsistency deny free will and yet speak of a natural liberty.

Later on, when discussing Stoicism, Gill notes that Augustine did not care
for the connotation of the term Fate, but that he had no objection to the
thing itself. And Gill adds, we agree with the Stoics when they assert that
all things that happen are determined by God from eternity. Some of the
Stoics were very careful to preserve the natural liberty of the will, as we
are; for example, Chrysippus taught that the will was free from the
necessity of motion.

John Gill was a Baptist. In order further to avoid dependence on
Presbyterian sources and to show that these are the doctrines of
Protestantism, a few lines will be taken from the enthusiastic Anglican, our
previous friend, Augustus Toplady - now as a theologian rather than as an
historian. The first reference comes at the end of section eight of his
history. To the sentence, "Calvinism disclaims all compulsion, properly so
called," he appends a footnote in which he defines compulsion as taking
place "when the beginning or continuing of any action is contrary to the
preference of the mind.... In the supernatural agency of grace on the heart,
compulsion is quite excluded, be that agency ever so effectual; since the
more effectually it is supposed to operate, the more certainly it must
engage 'the preference of the mind.'" The footnote continues on this theme
for several more lines.

Space forbids the reproduction of a great amount of material, but one
further reference may be taken from Toplady. In a work titled The Scheme
of Christian and Philosophical Necessity Asserted, there are the following
sentiments.

Let us, he says, by defining as we go, ascertain what free agency (in

opposition to free will) is. All needless refinements apart, free agency, in
plain English, is neither more nor less than voluntary agency. Now,
necessity is to be defined as that by which whatever comes to pass cannot
but come to pass, and can come to pass in no other way than it does. I
acquiesce, says Toplady, in the old distinction - adopted by Luther and by
most of, not to say all, the sound Reformed divines - between a necessity
of compulsion and a necessity of infallible certainty. The necessity of
compulsion is predicated of inanimate bodies and even of reasonable beings
when they are forced to do or suffer anything contrary to their will and
choice. The necessity of infallible certainty, on the other hand, renders the
event inevitably future, without any compulsory force on the will of the
agent. Thus Judas was a necessary though voluntary actor in that
tremendous business.

It would be well to read the entire treatise, but enough has been
indicated to enable us to come closer to our conclusion. In the theological
literature, free agency - or natural liberty - means that the will is not
determined by physical or physiological factors. But free agency is not free
will. Free will means that there is no determining factor operating on the
will, not even God. Free will means that either of two incompatible actions
are equally possible. Free agency goes with the view that all choices are
inevitable. The liberty that the Westminster Confession ascribes to the will
is a liberty from compulsion, coaction, or force of inanimate objects; it is
not a liberty from the power of God.

Perhaps the matter can be made clearer by stating in other words
precisely what the question is. The question is, Is the will free? The
question is not, Is there a will? Calvinism most assuredly holds that Judas
acted voluntarily. He chose to betray Christ. He did so willingly. No question
is raised as to whether or not he had a will. What the Calvinist asks is
whether that will was free. Are there factors or powers that determine a
person's choice, or is the choice causeless? Could Judas have chosen
otherwise? Not, could he have done otherwise, had he chosen; but, could he
have chosen in opposition to God's foreordination? Acts 4:28 indicates that
he could not. The Arminians frequently talk as if the will and free will were
synonyms. Then when Calvinism denies free will, they charge that men are
reduced to puppets. Puppets, of course, are inanimate dolls mechanically
controlled by strings. If the opponents had only read the Puritans, if they
only had known what Calvinism is, they could have spared themselves the

onus of making this blunder.

Choice and necessity are therefore not incompatible. Instead of
prejudging the question by confusing choice with free choice, one should
give an explicit definition of choice. The adjective could be justified only
afterward, if at all. Choice then may be defined, at least sufficiently for the
present purpose, as a mental act that consciously initiates and determines
a further action. The ability to have chosen otherwise is an irrelevant
matter and has no place in the definition. Such an ability could only be
argued after the definition has been made. We cannot permit the Arminians
to settle the whole matter simply by selecting a definition. A choice is still
a deliberate volition even if it could not have been different.

Appeal to Ignorance

In fact, it is not possible to know that it could have been different, for
we are unconscious of our limitations. The opponents frequently rest their
case for free will on their own consciousness of freedom. It seems
immediately and introspectively clear to them that their choices are
uncaused. But such a view assumes that they would be conscious of
causality, if there were any. To see that this is not the case, one may try
to specify the conditions under which a man could know that he had a free
will.

We observe in children and sometimes in adults atypical forms of
conduct that we ascribe to fatigue (the child is fussy because he has
missed his nap) or to nervous strain (the adult blows his top or takes to
alcohol). The individuals in question are acting voluntarily and may well
believe that their choices are uncaused. We know better. We know what the
causes are, and we know that they do not recognize them. Although it is
easy to see this in the case of other people, there is a tendency to overlook
the fact that the same is true of ourselves. We usually assume that
nothing is affecting our own will, just because we are not conscious of the
causality. But how could we be sure that there is no cause? What
conditions would have to be met before we could know that nothing is
determining our choices? Not only would we have to eliminate the
possibility of fatigue and nervous strain, but we would have to eliminate
other factors that are neither so easily examined after we think of them
nor so easily thought of in the first place. There are minute physiological
conditions beyond our usual or possible range of attention. Some incipient

disease may be affecting our minds. There are also external meteorological
factors, for admittedly unpleasant weather is depressing. And can we be
sure that a sunspot, whose existence we do not suspect, leaves us
unaffected? Even though the will is not mechanically determined, these
external conditions as well as our physiology seem to alter our conduct to
some extent. More important than physiology and astronomy is psychology.
May there not be some subconscious jealousy that motivates our reactions
to other people? Why do we eat chocolate sundaes when we know that we
should reduce? Are we free from the influence of parental training? The
Scriptures say, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is
old he will not depart from it." Parental training and all education proceed
on the assumption that the will is not free, but can be trained, motivated,
and directed. Finally, beyond both physiology and psychology there is God.
Can we be sure that he is not directing our choices? Do we know that we
are free from his grace? The Psalm says, "Blessed is the man whom you
choose and cause to approach you." Is it certain that God has not caused
us to choose to approach him? Can we set a limit to God's power? Can we
tell how far it extends and just where it ends? Are we outside his control?

The conclusion is evident, is it not? In order to know that our wills are
determined by no cause, we should have to know every possible cause in
the entire universe. Nothing could be allowed to escape our mind. To be
conscious of free will therefore requires omniscience. Hence there is no
consciousness of free will; what its exponents take as consciousness of
free will is simply the unconsciousness of determination.

This disposes of those trivial examples in which we are told that the
choice between cherry pie and apple pie is totally uncaused. Such cases do
not do justice to the gravity of the subject. If, however, examples are
requested, one might take Luther's choice: Here I stand, so help me God, I
can do no other. With the greater consciousness of the issues involved
comes a lesser assurance that an alternative is possible.

Responsibility and Determinism

Yet Luther was responsible for his choice, necessary though it was. Free
will is not the basis of responsibility. In the first place, and at a more
superficial level, the basis of responsibility is knowledge. The sinfulness of
the Gentiles, as stated in the first chapter of Romans, could be charged to
them because - although they did not like to retain God in their knowledge

- they did not entirely succeed in their attempt to forget him; throughout
their sinning they still knew the judgment of God that they which commit
such things are worthy of death. This knowledge no doubt is an innate
knowledge; it did not come from the Scriptures, but is the remains of the
original image of God in which he created man. To the same effect is Luke
12:47, "And that servant who knew his master's will, and did not prepare
himself or do according to his will, shall be beaten with many stripes. But
he who did not know, yet committed things worthy of stripes, shall be
beaten with few."

The explanation of responsibility, however, goes deeper than knowledge.
Indeed, if we take responsibility in its fullest extent, and if we admit that
we are made guilty in virtue of the first sin of our federal head, Adam, it
follows that our responsibility is not ultimately based on our choice at all.
Romans 5:17 reads, "by one man's offense death reigned through the one,"
and the passage goes on (verse 19) to say, "as by one man's disobedience
many were made sinners, so also by one man's obedience will many be
made righteous." In conformity with the Scriptures, the Westminster
Confession declares, "They being the root of all mankind, the guilt of this
sin was imputed; and the same death in sin, and corrupted nature,
conveyed to all their posterity descending from them by ordinary
generation" (VI, iii). Responsibility, therefore, must be so defined as to
make room for imputation, as well as to account for our everyday voluntary
actions.

It is strange that theological literature has made so little attempt to
define responsibility. It is a lack found among determinists and
indeterminists alike. Admittedly some statements about responsibility are
found, even some true statements; but not every true statement is a
definition. Once again, if we knew precisely what we were talking about,
our confusion might prove avoidable.

Now, the word responsibility looks as if it has to do with making a
response. Or, accountability is to give an account. A man is responsible if
he must answer for what he does. Let us then define the term by saying
that a person is responsible if he can be justly rewarded or punished for his
deeds. This implies, of course, that he must be answerable to someone.
Responsibility presupposes a superior authority that rewards and punishes.
The highest authority is God. Therefore responsibility is ultimately
dependent on the power and authority of God.

Is it just then for God to punish a man for deeds that God himself
"determined before to be done'? Was God just in punishing Judas, Herod,
Pontius Pilate, and the others? The Scriptures answer in the affirmative and
explain why. Not only is God the creator of the physical universe, not only
is he the governor and judge of men, he is also the moral legislator. It is
his will that establishes the distinction between right and wrong, between
justice and injustice; it is his will that sets the norms of righteous conduct.
Most people find it easy to conceive of God as having created or
established physical law by divine fiat. He might have created a world with
a different number of planets, had he so desired. Nor does it bother some
theologians to suppose that God could have made different ceremonial
requirements. Instead of commanding the priests to carry the ark on their
shoulders, God might have forbidden this and ordered them to put it on a
cart drawn by oxen. But for some peculiar reason, people hesitate in
applying the same principle of sovereignty in the sphere of ordinary ethics.
Instead of recognizing God as sovereign in morals, they want to subject
him to some independent, superior, ethical law - a law that satisfies their
sinful opinions of what is right and wrong.

Calvin avoided any such inconsistent and un-Biblical position. In the
Institutes he says,

how exceedingly presumptuous it is only to inquire into the causes of the
divine will, which is in fact, and is justly entitled to be, the cause of every tiling
that exists. For if it has any cause, then there must be something antecedent on
which it depends; which it is impious to suppose. For the will of God is the highest
rule of justice, so that what he wills must be considered j ust, for this very reason,
because he wills it. When it is inquired therefore why the Lord did so, the answer
must be, Because he would. But if you go further and askwhy he so determined,
you are in search of something greater and higher than the will of God, which
can never be found . \ 191

God is sovereign. Whatever he does is just, for this very reason: Because
he does it. If he punishes a man, the man is justly punished; and hence the
man is responsible. This answers the form of argument which runs:
Whatever God does is just; eternal punishment is not just; therefore, God
does not so punish. If the one who argues thus means that he has received
a special revelation that there is no eternal punishment, we cannot deal
with him here. If, however, he is not laying claim to a special revelation of
future history but to some philosophic principle which is intended to show

that eternal punishment is unjust, the distinction between our positions
becomes immediately obvious. Calvin has rejected the view of the universe
which makes a law, whether of justice or of evolution, instead of the
Lawgiver, supreme. Such a view is similar to Platonic dualism which posited
a world of Ideas superior to the divine Artificer. God in such a system is
finite or limited, bound to follow or obey the independent pattern. But those
who hold to the sovereignty of God determine what justice is by observing
what God actually does. Whatever God does is just. What he commands
men to do or not to do is similarly just or unjust.

Distortions and Cautions

The arguments so far adduced are more than sufficient for the solution
of the main problem. Further considerations could make the exposition
more complete and might remove from inexperienced minds a number of
distortions and objections that frequently present themselves. Calvinism
undoubtedly stimulates many misapprehensions, although the reason for
their frequency, as has already been seen in the discussion on puppets, is
not a point in which Arminians can take pride. At the same time, Calvinists
acknowledge that they themselves have a responsibility to forestall such
misapprehensions so far as possible. The Westminster Confession and
other Reformed creeds urge caution - not so much in opposing free will, for
the Reformers were outspoken in their championship of grace in opposition
to free will - but in preaching the doctrine of election and the divine decree.
This does not condone those professors in Bible Departments who,
supposing that they know better than God what should be revealed, demand
that the doctrine of the divine decree should be suppressed in silence. But
it does require that the Scriptural passages be clearly exegeted, that the
doctrine should be logically integrated with the rest of God's revelation, and
that at least the main objections should be squarely answered.

A recent volume, Divine Election by G. C. Berkouwer, is largely motivated
by the pastoral concern to protect the congregation from the uncertainties
and fear of a harsh presentation of election, predestination, and related
themes. Professor Berkouwer is a theologian of great erudition. His volume,
The Triumph of Grace in the Theology of Karl Barth, is a triumph of
scholarship. Similarly, The Conflict with Rome is a masterpiece. The book
under discussion also evidences a wealth of knowledge; its doctrine is
unmistakably Calvinistic; and yet some of its hesitations and fears seem to

be unfounded. Most of the dangers that he mentions have no doubt actually
occurred, as in the writings of a certain Snethlage whom he mentions;
these dangers could possibly be more common in Holland than in the United
States; but so far as the present writer's experience goes, it would seem
that the greater and far more common dangers are those of an opposite
tendency.

For one thing, Berkouwer thinks that it is necessary to deny that
Calvinism is deterministic. The word determinism apparently carries some
evil connotation in his mind. Unfortunately Berkouwer never clearly defines
determinism. Between the lines we may gather that determinism for him
automatically makes all differences within God's predetermination relative
and unimportant (180), so that preaching becomes useless (220). There are
of course various types of determinism, atheistic and mechanical as well
as theistic and teleological. This, however, is a poor reason for avoiding the
word determinism. On the contrary, a uniform avoidance of this term might
suggest to the congregation that the pastor does not really believe that God
controls every event; and this unfortunate result would surely be more
serious than any mistake arising from the word determinism. Sinful human
nature is much more apt to deny or to circumscribe God's authority in
favor of human independence than it is to exaggerate the power of God.
Pastoral caution and care, therefore, lead rather in the opposite direction.

Berkouwer also cautions against ascribing absolute power to God, against
asserting God's superiority to all law, and against calling his decisions
arbitrary. In each case, however, there is a sense in which these terms can
be used of God as well as a sense in which they are objectionable. Perhaps
Occam's idea of absolute power is not correct, yet Berkouwer admits that
there is no law superior to God and that in this sense God is indeed "Ex-
lex." When discussing the parable of the employer who paid his laborers the
same wage regardless of the time they worked, Berkouwer says that this
was not "arbitrary" - it was "good." So it was; but Berkouwer's concern
seems centered more on words than on their meaning.

Berkouwer also shows himself to be suspicious of the concept of
causality, largely because the idea of cause tends to "a metaphysical
determinism which leaves no room for variation and differences but which
subsumes everything under the one causality of God." f201 This is an empty
objection if ever there was one; and the discussion leaves much to be
desired, because Berkouwer admits that "it is inherently difficult to give

any answer that in itself would be transparent to reflective and reasonable
thinking.

"On the one hand, we want to maintain the freedom of God in election,
and on the other hand, we want to avoid any conclusion which would make
God the cause of sin and unbelief ."[21]

Berkouwer, in spite of his Calvinism and his many truly fine statements
of the Reformed position, is so embarrassed by his imaginary difficulties
that once he even stumbles into what I take to be an historical blunder. He
writes, "What Jacobs says of Calvin - that in his preaching and
commentaries the election of God is repeatedly discussed, while rejection is
not mentioned, can be said with as much validity of the Reformed
confessions / T221 This sentence in its context seems to mean that the
Reformed confessions do not even mention reprobation. This is not true;
and we hope that Berkouwer intended to say something else but merely
failed to express it clearly. That the ostensible meaning, however, is not
true is undeniable. Earlier in this chapter a part of the Westminster
Confession was quoted, and the reader's attention is again called to the
third, fourth, and seventh sections of chapter three.

It is not by a strained analysis of the concept of causality that
Berkouwer can avoid calling God the cause of sin or can contribute to the
prevention of misapprehensions. There are indeed two mistaken conclusions
that should be guarded against - not so much for the purpose of protecting
Calvinistic congregations from anxiety and insecurity, as Berkouwer
believes - but in order to save Arminians from the blunders they have
fallen into. In connection with the clause, God is the cause of sin,
something yet needs to be said about causality; and, second, something
needs to be said about God's holiness.

Berkouwer had complained that the attempt to explain the divine decree
in terms of causality prevented the acknowledgment of differences and
variations within the divine decree and therefore eliminated these
distinctions in the historical process. Even though Berkouwer admits that
there are two types of causality, he still concludes that "every discussion
of causality fails, must fail. "[23]

The question is slightly complex. One part of it has to do with the
necessity of means, or secondary or proximate causes. God does not do
everything - he hardly does anything - immediately. For this reason the
Westminster Confession, to which Berkouwer pays insufficient attention,

has a phrase about secondary causation.

It is human nature, depraved human nature, to attempt to avoid
responsibility for wrongdoing. In seeking to excuse himself for an evil act, a
man may assign the blame to his tempter, as Adam and Eve did, or to
compelling and extenuating circumstances, or to something else more
remote and ultimate. The insincerity of this procedure becomes apparent
when we notice that men do not try to avoid praise and honor by referring
their good acts to ultimate causes. They wish to escape blame, but they
are willing, only too willing, to accept compliments. The Christian view,
however, is clearly expressed in David's great confession. David did not
complain, I have sinned a great sin, but alas, I was born sinful and could
not help it; so, do not blame me too much. On the contrary, David said, I
have sinned a great sin; and what makes it all the worse is that I was born
that way; I could not help it, for I myself am evil. Repentant David placed
the blame, not on his mother, nor on Adam, nor on God, even though all of
these are causes in the chain of causation leading to his sin. Repentant
David placed the blame on the immediate cause of his act - himself. The
doctrine of creation, with its implication that there is no power independent
of God, does not deny but rather establishes the existence of secondary
causes. To suppose otherwise is unscriptural, and to avoid the notion of
causality is illogical.

Berkouwer's contention that an original, all inclusive, universal decree of
causation removes other distinctions is also untenable. He is afraid that the
principle of causality would conflict with the very Scriptural position that
guilt is the judicial ground of condemnation. Now, this is an important
factor, a most important factor for pastoral caution. The majority of
people, both inside and outside the church, are immersed in practical
details, and their vision seldom rises to more general theological principles.
They need the point emphasized that God condemns people for their sins.
In particular, evangelistic endeavor cannot omit the fact of sin. But
Calvinism does not make any such omission. Nor is there any
inconsistency. The doctrines of election and reprobation do not conflict with
the fact that God's punishment is visited on no one who is not a sinner.
The sinner deserves his punishment because he is evil and has done evil.
No innocent person suffers. To be sure, Calvinism also insists that there
are no innocent persons, except Christ of course. All are dead in sin.
Salvation is a free, unmerited gift. Sin alone has merited wages, and those

wages are death. All this, Calvinism proclaims without compromise. There
is nothing in the divine decree that is inconsistent with acknowledging sin
as the judicial ground of punishment. Berkouwer's claim that the concept of
cause removes particularities from the divine decree is therefore untenable.

There are admittedly other details whose discussion might obviate
various misunderstandings. To consider them all, even if they were not
repetitious, would require a length and minuteness incompatible with the
present plan. There is, however, one extremely important topic that cannot
be omitted. Does the view here defended make God the cause and author of
sin? Berkouwer asks this question also, and so has everyone else.

Let it be unequivocally said that this view certainly makes God the cause
of sin. God is the sole ultimate cause of everything. There is absolutely
nothing independent of him. He alone is the eternal being. He alone is
omnipotent. He alone is sovereign. Not only is Satan his creature, but every
detail of history was eternally in his plan before the world began; and he
willed that it should all come to pass. The men and angels predestined to
eternal life and those foreordained to everlasting death are particularly and
unchangeably designed; and their number is so certain and definite that it
cannot be either increased or diminished. Election and reprobation are
equally ultimate. God determined that Christ should die; he determined as
well that Judas should betray him. There was never the remotest possibility
that something different could have happened.

Whatever the Lord pleases he does, in Heaven and in Earth [Psalm 135:6],
All the inhabitants of the Earth are reputed as nothing; he does according to his
will in the army of Heaven and among the inhabitants of the Earth. No one can
restrain his hand or say to him, “What have you done?’ [Daniel 4:35],

I form the light and create darkness, I mate peace and create evil; I, the Lord,
do all these things [Isaiah 45:7],

The Lord has made all things for himself, yes, even the wicked for the day of
evil [Proverbs 16:4],

You will say to me then, “Why does he still find fault? For who has resisted
his will?’ But indeed, O man, who are you to reply against God?... Does not the
potter have power over the clay, from the same lump to mate one vessel for
honor and another for dishonor? [Romans 9:19-21],

Therefore consider the goodness and severity of God [Romans 11:22],

One is permitted to ask, however, whether the phrase "cause of sin" is
the equivalent of the phrase "author of sin." Is the latter phrase used to

deny God's universal causality? Obviously not, for the same people who
affirm causality deny the authorship. They must have intended a difference.
An illustration is close at hand. God is not the author of this book, as the
Arminians would be the first to admit; but he is its ultimate cause as the
Bible teaches. Yet I am the author. Authorship, therefore, is one kind of
cause, but there are other kinds. The author of a book is its immediate
cause; God is its ultimate cause.

This distinction between first and secondary causation - explicitly
maintained in the Westminster Confession - has not always been
appreciated, even by those who are in general agreement. John Gill, for
example, who is so excellent on so much, failed to grasp the distinction
between the immediate author and the ultimate cause. For this reason
there are some faulty passages in his otherwise fine work. Such is the
difficulty of the problem and so confused are the discussions from the time
of the patristics to the present day, that some of the best Calvinists have
not extricated themselves completely from Scholastic errors. Not only
Berkouwer, but even Jonathan Edwards, in spite of Calvin, still spoke about
God's permission of sin.

When, accordingly, the discussion comes to God's being the author of sin,
one must understand the question to be, Is God the immediate cause of
sin? Or, more clearly, Does God commit sin? This is a question concerning
God's holiness. Now, it should be evident that God no more commits sin
than he is writing these words. Although the betrayal of Christ was
foreordained from eternity as a means of effecting the atonement, it was
Judas, not God, who betrayed Christ. The secondary causes in history are
not eliminated by divine causality, but rather they are made certain. And
the acts of these secondary causes, whether they be righteous acts or
sinful acts, are to be immediately referred to the agents; and it is these
agents who are responsible.

God is neither responsible nor sinful, even though he is the only ultimate
cause of everything. He is not sinful because in the first place whatever
God does is just and right. It is just and right simply in virtue of the fact
that he does it. Justice or righteousness is not a standard external to God
to which God is obligated to submit. Righteousness is what God does. Since
God caused Judas to betray Christ, this causal act is righteous and not
sinful. By definition God cannot sin. At this point it must be particularly
pointed out that God's causing a man to sin is not sin. There is no law,

superior to God, which forbids him to decree sinful acts. Sin presupposes a
law, for sin is lawlessness. Sin is any want of conformity unto or
transgression of the law of God. But God is "Ex-lex."

True it is that if a man, a created being, should cause or try to cause
another man to sin, this attempt would be sinful. The reason is plain. The
relation of one man to another is entirely different from the relation of God
to any man. God is the creator; man is a creature. And the relation of a
man to the law is equally different from the relation of God to the law.
What holds in the one situation does not hold in the other. God has absolute
and unlimited rights over all created things. Of the same lump he can make
one vessel for honor and another for dishonor. The clay has no claims on
the potter. Among men, on the contrary, rights are limited.

The idea that God is above law can be explained in another particular.
The laws that God imposes on men do not apply to the divine nature. They
are applicable only to human conditions. For example, God cannot steal, not
only because whatever he does is right, but also because he owns
everything: There is no one to steal from. Thus the law that defines sin
envisages human conditions and has no relevance to a sovereign Creator.

As God cannot sin, so in the next place, God is not responsible for sin,
even though he decrees it. Perhaps it would be well, before we conclude, to
give a little more Scriptural evidence that God indeed decrees and causes
sin. 2 Chronicles 18:20-22 read:

Then a spirit came forward and stood before the Lord, and said, “I will
persuade him.” The Lord said to him, “In what way?’ So he said, “I will go out
and be a lying spirit in the mouth of all his prophets.” And the Lord said, “You
shall persuade him and also prevail; go out and do so.” Now, therefore, look! The
Lord has put a lying spirit in the mouth of these prophets of yours, and the Lord
has declared disaster against you.

This passage definitely says that the Lord caused the prophets to lie.
Other similar passages ought easily to come to one's remembrance. But
that God is not responsible for the sin he causes is a conclusion closely
connected with the preceding argument.

Another aspect of the human conditions presupposed by the laws God
imposes on man is that they carry with them a penalty that cannot be
inflicted on God. Man is responsible because God calls him to account; man
is responsible because the supreme power can punish him for disobedience.
God, on the contrary, cannot be responsible for the plain reason that there

is no power superior to him; no greater being can hold him accountable; no
one can punish him; there is no one to whom God is responsible; there are
no laws which he could disobey. The sinner, therefore, and not God, is
responsible; the sinner alone is the author of sin. Man has no free will, for
salvation is purely of grace; and God is sovereign.

Deo Soli Gloria

I am the Lord, and there is no other; there is no God besides me.... I
form the light and create darkness, I make peace and create evil; I,
the Lord, do all these things.... Woe to him who strives with his Maker!
... Shall the clay say to him who forms it, "What are you making?"..
Thus says the Lord, the Holy One of Israel,... I have made the Earth,
and created man on it. It was I - my hands that stretched out the
heavens, and all their host I have commanded.... Oh, the depth of the
riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable
are his judgments and his ways past finding out!... For of him and
through him and to him are all things, to whom be glory forever. Amen.

[1] John Milton, Paradise Lost. 1-6.

[2] Augustine, Free Will, I, ii, xvi.

[3] Augustine, Free Will, III, xviii.

[4] John Gill, The Cause of God and Truth, III, v, xiii.

[5] John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, III, xxiii, 8; II, iv, 3.

[6] The Works of Augustus Toplady. 1794, 82-83.

[Z] Toplady, 84.

[8] Toplady, 87-88.

[9] Toplady, 93.

[10] Toplady, 94.

[11] Toplady, 97.

[12] Toplady, 98.

[13] Toplady, 100.

[14] Toplady, 106-108.

[15] Of these quotations by Toplady I have verified those I could easily
find. Others are relatively inaccessible. Since Toplady often gives the Latin
text, one may hope that he has been accurate. If in some place he has
made a mistake, it is still proved that the five points did not originate with
Calvin, much less with the Synod of Dordt.

[16] For further argument, see Jonathan Edwards, Miscellaneous
Observations, Part II, chapter 3; 1811 edition, Volume VIII, 384.

[17] Georgia Harkness, Conflict in Religious Thought, 233-234.

[18] Stuart Hackett, The Resurrection of Theism, 174.

[19] John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, III, xxiii, 2.

[20] G. C. Berkouwer, Divine Election, 178.

[21] G. C. Berkouwer, Divine Election, 181.

[22] G. C. Berkouwer, Divine Election, 194

[23] G. C. Berkouwer, Divine Election, 190.

Books by Gordon H. Clark

Readings in Ethics (1940)

Selections from Hellenistic Philosophy (1940)

A History of Philosophy (co-author, 1941)

A Christian Philosophy of Education, The Works of Gordon Haddon
Clark, Volume 10 (1946, 2000)

A Christian View of Men and Things, The Works of Gordon Haddon
Clark, Volume 1 (1952, 2005)

What Presbyterians Believe ( 1956) f 11

Thales to Dewey: A History of Philosophy, The Works of Gordon
Haddon Clark, Volume 3 (1957, 2000)

Dewey ( 1960) f 21

Religion, Reason and Revelation (1961, 1995, 2011)[3]

William James (1963)2

Karl Barth's Theological Method (1963, 1997)

The Philosophy of Science and Belief in God (1964, 1996) [41
What Do Presbyterians Believe? (1965, 1985)

Peter Speaks Today ( 1967) f 51

The Philosophy of Gordon H. Clark ( 1968) \ 61

Biblical Predestination (1969)[7]

Historiography: Secular and Religious (1971, 1994)

II Peter (1972)5

The Johannine Logos (1972, 1989) f 8]

Three Types of Religious Philosophy (1973, 1989)[9]

First Corinthians (1975, 1991)

Colossians (1979, 1989 ) \ 101

Predestination in the Old Testament (1979) f 111

I and II Peter (1980)1121

Language and Theology (1980, 1993) £ 131

First John (1980, 1992)

God's Hammer: The Bible and Its Critics (1982, 1987, 1995, 2011)
Behaviorism and Christianity ( 1982) [ 141
Faith and Saving Faith (1983, 1990) f 151
In Defense of Theology (1984, 2007)

The Pastoral Epistles, The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark, Volume 15
(1984, 1998)

The Biblical Doctrine of Man (1984, 1992)

The Trinity (1985, 1990, 2010)

Logic (1985, 2005)

Ephesians ( 1985) f 161

Clark Speaks from the Grave ( 1986) f 171

Logical Criticisms of Textual Criticism (1986, 1990) f 181

First 8i Second Thessalonians ( 1986) f 191

Predestination (1987, 2006)

The Atonement (1987, 1996)

The Incarnation (1988)

Today's Evangelism: Counterfeit or Genuine? (1990)

Essays on Ethics and Politics (1992)

Sanctification (1992)

New Heavens, New Earth (First and Second Peter) (1980, 1993)

The Holy Spirit (1993)

An Introduction to Christian Philosophy (1993) [201, [211
Lord God of Truth 8i Concerning the Teacher (1994)

William James and John Dewey (1995)£22]

God and Evil (1996, 2004) r 231
Philippians (1996)

Ancient Philosophy (1997)

What Is Saving Faith? (2004)

Christian Philosophy (2004), The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark,
Volume 4

Commentaries on Paul's Letters (2005), The Works of Gordon Haddon
Clark, Volume 12

Modern Philosophy (2008), The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark, Volume
5

Clark and His Critics (2009), The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark,
Volume 7

[1] Revised as What Do Presbyterians Believe? (1965)

[2] Combined as William James and John Dewey (1995); included in Modern
Philosophy (2007)

[3] Included in Christian Philosophy (2004)

[4] Included in Modern Philosophy (2008)

[5] Combined as I & II Peter (1980) and revised as New Heavens, New
Earth (1993)

[6] Included in Clark and His Critics (2009)

[7] Included in Predestination (1987, 2006)

[8] Included in What Is Saving Faith? (2004)

[9] Included in Christian Philosophy (2004)

[10] Included in Commentaries on Paul's Letters (2005)

[11] Included in Predestination (1987, 2006)

[12] Combined as I & II Peter (1980) and revised as New Heavens, New
Earth (1993)

[131 Included in Modern Philosophy (2008)

[14] Included in Modern Philosophy (2008)

[15] Included in What Is Saving Faith? (2004)

[16] Included in Commentaries on Paul's Letters (2005)

[171 Included in Clark and His Critics (2009)

[18] Included in Commentaries on Paul's Letters (2005)

[19] Included in Commentaries on Paul's Letters (2005)

[20] Included in Christian Philosophy (2004)

[21] Part 1 of The Philosophy of Gordon H. Clark

[22] Included in Modern Philosophy (2008)

[23] Chapter 5 of Religion, Reason and Revelation

The Crisis of Our Time

H istorians have christened the thirteenth century the Age of Faith and
termed the eighteenth century the Age of Reason. The twentieth century was
called many things: the Atomic Age, the Age of Inflation, the Age of the Tyrant,
the Age of Aquarius. But the modern age deserves one name more than the
others: the Age of Irrationalism. Contemporary intellectuals are anti- intellectual.
Contemporary philosophers are anti-philosophy. Contemporary theologians are
anti-theology .

In past centuries, secular philosophers have generally believed that
knowledge is possible to man. Consequently they expended a great deal of
thought and effort trying to justify their claims to know. In the twentieth
century, however, the optimism of the secular philosophers all but
disappeared. They despaired of knowing.

Like their secular counterparts, the great theologians and doctors of the
church taught that knowledge is possible to man. Yet the theologians of the
twentieth century repudiated that belief. They also despaired of knowledge.
This radical skepticism has penetrated our entire culture, from television to
music to literature. The Christian at the beginning of the twenty-first
century is confronted with an overwhelming cultural consensus -
sometimes stated explicitly but most often implicitly: Man does not and
cannot know anything truly.

What does this have to do with Christianity? Simply this: If man can
know nothing truly, man can truly know nothing. We cannot know that the
Bible is the Word of God, that Christ died for his people, or that Christ is
alive today at the right hand of the Father. Unless knowledge is possible,
Christianity is nonsensical, for it claims to be knowledge. What is at stake
at the beginning of the twenty-first century is not simply a single doctrine,
such as the virgin birth, or the existence of Hell, as important as those
doctrines may be, but the whole of Christianity itself. If knowledge is not
possible to man, it is worse than silly to argue points of doctrine - it is
insane.

The irrationalism of the present age is so thoroughgoing and pervasive
that even the Remnant - the segment of the professing church that
remains faithful - has accepted much of it, frequently without even being
aware of what it is accepting. In some religious circles this irrationalism
has become synonymous with piety and humility, and those who oppose it

are denounced as rationalists, as though to be logical were a sin. Our
contemporary anti-theologians make a contradiction and call it a Mystery.
The faithful ask for truth and are given Paradox and Antinomy. If any resist
swallowing the absurdities of the anti-theologians who teach in the
seminaries or have graduated from the seminaries, they are frequently
marked as heretics or schismatics who seek to act independently of God.

There is no greater threat facing the true church of Christ at this
moment than the irrationalism that now controls our entire culture.
Totalitarianism, guilty of hundreds of millions of murders - including those
of millions of Christians - is to be feared, but not nearly so much as the
idea that we do not and cannot know the literal truth. Hedonism, the
popular philosophy of America, is not to be feared so much as the belief
that logic - that "mere human logic," to use the religious irrationalists' own
phrase - is futile. The attacks on truth, on knowledge, on propositional
revelation, on the intellect, on words, and on logic are renewed daily. But
note well: The misologists - the haters of logic - use logic to demonstrate
the futility of using logic. The anti-intellectuals construct intricate
intellectual arguments to prove the insufficiency of the intellect. Those who
deny the competence of words to express thought use words to express
their thoughts. The proponents of poetry, myth, metaphor, and analogy
argue for their theories by using literal prose, whose competence - even
whose possibility - they deny. The anti-theologians use the revealed Word
of God to show that there can be no revealed Word of God - or that if
there could, it would remain impenetrable darkness and Mystery to our
finite minds.

Nonsense Has Come

Is it any wonder that the world is grasping at straws - the straws of
experientialism, mysticism, and drugs? After all, if people are told that the
Bible contains insoluble mysteries, then is not a flight into mysticism to be
expected? On what grounds can it be condemned? Certainly not on logical
grounds or Biblical grounds, if logic is futile and the Bible unintelligible.
Moreover, if it cannot be condemned on logical or Biblical grounds, it cannot
be condemned at all. If people are going to have a religion of the
mysterious, they will not adopt Christianity: They will have a genuine
mystery religion. The popularity of Roman Catholicism, Eastern mysticism,
mind-altering drugs, and religious experience is the logical consequence of

the irrationalism of the twentieth century. There can and will be no
Christian reformation unless and until the irrationalism of the age is totally
repudiated by Christians.

The Church Defenseless

Yet how shall they do it? The official spokesmen for Christianity have
been fatally infected with irrationalism. The seminaries, which annually
train thousands of men to teach millions of Christians, are the finishing
schools of irrationalism, completing the job begun by government schools
and colleges. Many of the pulpits of the conservative churches (we are not
speaking of the obviously apostate churches) are occupied by graduates of
the anti-theological schools. These products of modern anti-theological
education, when asked to give a reason for the hope that is in them, can
generally respond with only the vocal analogue of a shrug - a mumble about
Mystery. They have not grasped - and therefore cannot teach those for
whom they are responsible - the first truth: "And you shall know the truth."
Many, in fact, explicitly deny it, saying that we can possess only "pointers"
to the truth, or something "similar" to the truth, a mere analogy, but not
the divine truth itself. Is the impotence of the Christian church a puzzle? Is
the fascination with Pentecostalism, ritualism, faith healing, Eastern
Orthodoxy, and Roman Catholicism - all sensate and anti-intellectual
religions - among members of conservative churches an enigma? Not when
one understands the pious nonsense that is purveyed in the name of God in
the religious colleges and seminaries.

The Trinity Foundation

The creators of The Trinity Foundation firmly believe that theology is too
important to be left to the licensed theologians - the graduates of the
schools of theology. They have created The Trinity Foundation for the
express purpose of teaching believers all that the Scriptures contain - not
warmed over, baptized, non-Christian philosophies. Each member of the
board of directors of The Trinity Foundation has signed this oath: "I believe
that the Bible alone and the Bible in its entirety is the Word of God and,
therefore, inerrant in the autographs. I believe that the system of truth
presented in the Bible is best summarized in the Westminster Confession
of Faith. So help me God."

The ministry of The Trinity Foundation is the presentation of the system
of truth taught in Scripture as clearly and as completely as possible. We do

not regard obscurity as a virtue, nor confusion as a sign of spirituality.
Confusion, like all error, is sin, and teaching that confusion is all that
Christians can hope for is doubly sin.

The presentation of the truth of Scripture necessarily involves the
rejection of error. The Foundation has exposed and will continue to expose
the irrationalism of the modern age, whether its current spokesman be an
Existentialist philosopher or a professed Reformed theologian. We oppose
anti-intellectualism, whether it be espoused by a Neo-orthodox theologian or
a Fundamentalist evangelist. We reject misology, whether it be on the lips
of a Neo-evangelical or those of a Roman Catholic Charismatic. We
repudiate agnosticism, whether it be secular or religious. To each error we
bring the brilliant light of Scripture, proving all things, and holding fast to
that which is true.

The Primacy of Theory

The ministry of The Trinity Foundation is not a "practical" ministry. If
you are a pastor, we will not enlighten you on how to organize an
ecumenical prayer meeting in your community or how to double church
attendance in a year. If you are a homemaker, you will have to read
elsewhere to find out how to become a total woman. If you are a
businessman, we will not tell you how to develop a social conscience. The
professing church is drowning in such "practical" advice.

The Trinity Foundation is unapologetically theoretical in its outlook,
believing that theory without practice is dead, and that practice without
theory is blind. The trouble with the professing church is not primarily in its
practice, but in its theory. Professing Christians and teachers do not know,
and many do not even care to know, the doctrines of Scripture. Doctrine is
intellectual, and professing Christians are generally anti-intellectual.
Doctrine is ivory-tower philosophy, and they scorn ivory towers. The ivory
tower, however, is the control tower of a civilization. It is a fundamental,
theoretical mistake of the "practical" men to think that they can be merely
practical, for practice is always the practice of some theory. The
relationship between theory and practice is the relationship between cause
and effect. If a person believes correct theory, his practice will tend to be
correct. The practice of contemporary professing Christians is immoral
because it is the practice of false theories. It is a major theoretical
mistake of the "practical" men to think that they can ignore the ivory
towers of the philosophers and theologians as irrelevant to their lives. Every

action that "practical" men take is governed by the thinking that has
occurred in some ivory tower - whether that tower be the British Museum;
the Academy; a home in Basel, Switzerland; or a tent in Israel.

In Understanding Be Men

It is the first duty of the Christian to understand correct theory - correct
doctrine - and thereby implement correct practice. This order - first
theory, then practice - is both logical and Biblical. It is, for example,
exhibited in Paul's Epistle to the Romans, in which he spends the first
eleven chapters expounding theory and the last five discussing practice. The
contemporary teachers of Christians have not only reversed the Biblical
order, they have inverted the Pauline emphasis on theory and practice. The
virtually complete failure of the teachers of the professing church to
instruct believers in correct doctrine is the cause of the misconduct and
spiritual and cultural impotence of Christians. The church's lack of power is
the result of its lack of truth. The Gospel is the power of God, not religious
experiences or personal relationships. The church has no power because it
has abandoned the Gospel, the good news, for a religion of experientialism.
Modern American Christians are children carried about by every wind of
doctrine, not knowing what they believe, or even if they believe anything for
certain.

The chief purpose of The Trinity Foundation is to counteract the
irrationalism of the age and to expose the errors of the teachers of the
church. Our emphasis - on the Bible as the sole source of knowledge, on
the primacy of truth, on the supreme importance of correct doctrine, and
on the necessity for systematic and logical thinking - is rare. To the extent
that the church survives - and she will survive and flourish - it will be
because of her increasing acceptance of these basic ideas and their logical
implications.

We believe that The Trinity Foundation is filling a vacuum. We are saying
that Christianity is intellectually defensible - that, in fact, it is the only
intellectually defensible system of thought. We are saying that God has
made the wisdom of this world - whether that wisdom be called science,
religion, philosophy, or common sense - foolishness. We are appealing to all
Christians who have not conceded defeat in the intellectual battle with the
world to join us in our efforts to raise a standard to which all men of sound
mind can repair.

The love of truth, of God's Word, has all but disappeared in our time. We

are committed to and pray for a great instauration. But though we may not
see this reformation in our lifetimes, we believe it is our duty to present
the whole counsel of God because Christ has commanded it. The results of
our teaching are in God's hands, not ours. Whatever those results, his Word
is never taught in vain, but always accomplishes the result that he intended
it to accomplish. Gordon H. Clark has stated our view well:

There have been times in the history of God’s people, for example, in the
days of Jeremiah, when refreshing grace and widespread revival were not to be
expected: The time was one of chastisement. If this twentieth century is of a
similar nature, individual Christians here and there can find comfort and strength
in a study of God’s Word. But if God has decreed happier days for us, and if we
may expect a world-shaking and genuine spiritual awakening, then it is the
author’s belief that a zeal for souls, however necessary, is not the sufficient
condition. Have there not been devout saints in every age, numerous enough to
carry on a revival? Twelve such persons are plenty . What distinguishes the arid
ages from the period of the Reformation, when nations were moved as they had
not been since Paul preached in Ephesus, Corinth, and Rome, is the latter’s
fullness of knowledge of God’s Word. To echo an early Reformation thought,
when the ploughman and the garage attendant know the Bible as well as the
theologian does, and know it better than some contemporary theologians, then the
desired awakening shall have already occurred.

In addition to publishing books, The Foundation publishes a monthly
newsletter, The Trinity Review. Subscriptions to The Review are free to
U.S. addresses; please write to the address on the book order form to
become a subscriber. If you would like further information or would like to
assist us in our work, please let us know.

The Trinity Foundation is a non-profit foundation, tax exempt under
section 501 (c)(3) of the Internal Revenue Code of 1954. You can help us
disseminate the Word of God through your tax-deductible contributions to
The Foundation.

John W. Robbins

Intellectual Ammunition

T he Trinity Foundation is committed to bringing every philosophical and
theological thought captive to Christ. The books listed below are designed to
accomplish that goal. They are written with two subordinate purposes: (1) to
demolish all non-Christian claims to knowledge; and (2) to build a system of truth
based upon the Bible alone.

Philosophy
Ancient Philosophy
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $24.95

This book covers the thousand years from the Pre-Socratics to
Plotinus. It represents some of the early work of Dr. Clark - the work
that made his academic reputation. It is an excellent college text.

Christ and Civilization
John W. Robbins
Trade paperback $5.95

Civilization as we know it is a result of the widespread proclamation
and belief of the Gospel of justification by faith alone in the sixteenth
century. Christ foretold this result in the Sermon on the Mount : "Seek
first the Kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things
will be added to you." This brief overview of the history of western
civilization makes it clear that our cultural debt is to the Gospel, not to
Greece and Rome.

Christian Philosophy
Gordon H. Clark
Hardback $29.95
Trade paperback $21.95

This book, Volume 4 in The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark, combines
three of his most important works in philosophy: Three Types of
Religious Philosophy; Religion, Reason and Revelation; and An
Introduction to Christian Philosophy. Together they constitute Dr.
Clark's principal statement of his Christian philosophy.

A Christian Philosophy of Education

Gordon H. Clark
Hardback $18.95
Trade paperback $12.95

The first edition of this book was published in 1946. It sparked
interest in Christian schools. In the 1970s, Dr. Clark thoroughly revised
and updated it, and it is needed now more than ever. Its chapters
include: The Need for a World-View; The Christian World-View; The
Alternative to Christian Theism; Neutrality; Ethics; The Christian
Philosophy of Education; Academic Matters; and Kindergarten to
University. Three appendices are included: The Relationship of Public
Education to Christianity; A Protestant World-View; and Art and the
Gospel. It is Volume 12 in The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark.

A Christian View of Men and Things
Gordon H. Clark
Hardback $29.95
Trade paperback $21.95

No other book achieves what A Christian View does: the presentation
of Christianity as it applies to history, politics, ethics, science, religion,
and epistemology. Dr. Clark's command of both worldly philosophy and
Scripture is evident on every page, and the result is a breathtaking and
invigorating challenge to the wisdom of this world. This is Volume 1 in
The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark.

Clark and His Critics
Gordon H. Clark
Hardback $29.95
Trade paperback $21.95

This book, Volume 7 in The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark, combines
two separate books: The Philosophy of Gordon H. Clark, first published
in 1968, and Clark Speaks from the Grave, first published in 1986. In
this volume Clark answers all objections to his philosophy of
Scripturalism and chides his critics for their incompetent defenses of
the Christian faith.

Clark Speaks from the Grave
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $3.95

Dr. Clark chicles some of his critics for their failure to defend
Christianity competently. Clark Speaks is a stimulating and illuminating
discussion of the errors of contemporary apologists.

See also Clark and His Critics.

Ecclesiastical Megalomania: The Economic and Political Thought of the

Roman Catholic Church

John W. Robbins

Hardback $29.95

Trade paperback $19.95

This detailed and thorough analysis and critique of the social
teaching of the Roman Church-State is the only such book available by
a Christian economist and political philosopher. The book's conclusions
reveal the Roman Church-State to be an advocate of its own brand of
faith-based fascism. Ecclesiastical Megalomania includes the complete
text of the Donation of Constantine and Lorenzo Valla's expose of the
hoax.

Education, Christianity, and the State
J. Gresham Machen
Trade paperback $10.95

Machen was one of the foremost educators, theologians, and
defenders of Christianity in the twentieth century. The author of
several scholarly books, Machen saw clearly that if Christianity is to
survive and flourish, a system of Christian schools must be
established. This collection of essays and speeches captures his
thoughts on education over nearly three decades.

Essays on Ethics and Politics
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $10.95

Dr. Clark's essays, written over the course of five decades, are a
major statement of Christian ethics.

Freedom and Capitalism: Essays on Christian Economics and Politics
John W. Robbins
Hardback $29.95

The Biblical model for limited government and a free society - the
state the Holy Spirit describes in Romans 13 and 1 Samuel 8 - is
despised by both Christians and non-Christians, who think they have a
moral mandate to force others to be "charitable" and "Christian." This
book is a collection of 31 essays that defend laissez-faire capitalism
and constitutional government, the only moral system of economics
and government. Topics covered include the draft, foreign policy, health
care, taxation, monetary policy, faith-based welfare, the separation of
church and state, and much more.

Gordon H. Clark: Personal Recollections
John W. Robbins, Editor
Trade paperback $6.95

Friends of Dr. Clark have written their recollections of the man.
Contributors include family members, colleagues, students, and friends
such as Harold Lindsell, Carl Henry, Ronald Nash, and Anna Marie
Hager.

Historiography: Secular and Religious
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $13.95

In this masterful work, Dr. Clark applies his philosophy to the writing
of history, examining all the major schools of historiography.

Language and Theology
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $9.95

There were two main currents in twentieth-century philosophy -
Language Philosophy and Existentialism. Both were hostile to
Christianity. Dr. Clark disposes of Language Philosophy in this brilliant
critique of Bertrand Russell, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Rudolf Carnap, AJ.
Ayer, Langdon Gilkey, and many others.

See also Modern Philosophy.

Logic

Gordon H. Clark
Hardback $16.95

Written as a textbook for Christian schools, Logic is another unique
book from Dr. Clark's pen. His presentation of the laws of thought,
which must be followed if Scripture is to be understood correctly, and
which are found in Scripture itself, is both clear and thorough. Logic is
an indispensable book for the thinking Christian.

Lord God of Truth, Concerning the Teacher
Gordon H. Clark, Aurelius Augustine
Trade paperback $7.95

This essay by Dr. Clark summarizes many of the most telling
arguments against empiricism and defends the Biblical teaching that
we know God and truth immediately. The dialogue by Augustine is a
refutation of empirical language philosophy.

Modern Philosophy
Gordon H. Clark
Hardback $29.95
Trade paperback $21.95

This book, Volume 5 in The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark, combines
five separate books: The Philosophy of Science and Belief in God,
Behaviorism and Christianity, Language and Theology, William James,
and John Dewey.

Religion, Reason and Revelation
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $12.95

One of Dr. Clark's apologetical masterpieces, Religion, Reason and
Revelation has been praised for the clarity of its thought and language.
It includes these chapters: Is Christianity a Religion? Faith and
Reason; Inspiration and Language; Revelation and Morality; and God
and Evil. It is must reading for all serious Christians.

See also Christian Philosophy.

The Scripturalism of Gordon H. Clark
W. Gary Crampton
Trade paperback $9.95

Dr. Crampton has written an introduction to the philosophy of Gordon

H. Clark that is helpful to both beginners and advanced students of
theology. This book includes a bibliography of Dr. Clark's works.

Thales to Dewey: A History of Philosophy
Gordon H. Clark
Hardback $29.95
Trade paperback $21.95

This is the best one-volume history of philosophy in print. It is
Volume 3 in The Works of Gordon Haddon Clark.

William James and John Dewey
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $8.95

William James and John Dewey are two of the most influential
philosophers America has produced. Their philosophies of
Instrumentalism and Pragmatism are hostile to Christianity, and Dr.
Clark demolishes their arguments.

See also Modern Philosophy.

Without A Prayer: Ayn Rand and the Close of Her System
John W. Robbins
Trade paperback $19.95

Ayn Rand has been a best-selling author since 1957. Without A
Prayer discusses Objectivism's epistemology, theology, ethics, and
politics in detail. Appendices include analyses of books by Leonard
Peikoff and David Kelley, as well as several essays on Christianity and
philosophy.

Theology

Against the Churches: The Trinity Review 1989-1998
John W. Robbins, Editor
Oversize hardback $39.95

This is the second volume of 77 essays from The Trinity Review,
covering its second ten years, 1989-1998. This volume, like the first, is
fully indexed and is very useful in research and in the classroom.
Authors include Gordon Clark, Charles Hodge, J. C. Ryle, Horatius Bonar,
and Robert L. Dabney.

Against the World: The Trinity Review 1978-1988
John W. Robbins, Editor
Oversize hardback $34.95

This is a clothbound collection of the essays published in The Trinity
Review from 1978 to 1988, 70 in all. Fully indexed, it is a valuable
source of information and arguments explaining and defending
Christianity.

The Atonement
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $8.95

In The Atonement, Dr. Clark discusses the covenants, the virgin birth
and incarnation, federal headship and representation, the relationship
between God's sovereignty and justice, and much more. He analyzes
traditional views of the atonement and criticizes them in the light of
Scripture alone.

The Biblical Doctrine of Man
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $6.95

Is man soul and body or soul, spirit, and body? What is the image of
God? Is Adam's sin imputed to his children? Is evolution true? Are
men totally depraved? What is the heart? These are some of the
questions discussed and answered from Scripture in this book.

By Scripture Alone
W. Gary Crampton
Trade paperback $12.95

This is a clear and thorough explanation of the Scriptural doctrine of
Scripture and a refutation of the recent Romanist attack on Scripture
as the Word of God.

Can the Presbyterian Church in America Be Saved?

Sean Gerety
Trade paperback $9.95

This book demonstrates the PCA's failure to deal with the Federal
Vision heresy in its midst. This failure stems from the Vantilianism of

most of its leaders.

Can the Orthodox Presbyterian Church Be Saved?

John W. Robbins
Trade paperback $3.95

This small book, which demonstrates the central errors of OPC
history and theology since the 1940s, is an alarm to awaken members
of the OPC from their slumbers.

The Changing of the Guard
Mark W. Karl berg
Trade paperback $3.95

This essay is a critical discussion of Westminster Seminary's anti-
Reformational and un-Biblical teaching on the doctrine of justification.
Dr. Karl berg exposes the doctrine of justification by faith and works -
not sola fide - taught at Westminster Seminary for the past 30 years,
by Professors Norman Shepherd, Richard Gaffin, John Frame, and
others.

Christianity and Neo- Liberal ism: The Spiritual Crisis in the Orthodox

Presbyterian Church and Beyond

Paul M. Elliott

Trade paperback $19.95

This massively-documented book details the influence Westminster
Theological Seminary has had on the Orthodox Presbyterian Church and
other churches and organizations. It is both a work of theological
analysis and a call to action.

The Church Effeminate
John W. Robbins, Editor
Hardback $29.95

This is a collection of 39 essays by the best theologians of the
church on the doctrine of the church: Martin Luther, John Calvin,
Benjamin Warfield, Gordon Clark, J.C. Ryle, and many more. The essays
cover the structure, function, and purpose of the church.

The Clark-Van Til Controversy
Herman Hoeksema

Trade paperback $9.95

This collection of essays by the founder of the Protestant Reformed
Churches - essays written at the time of the Clark-Van Til controversy
in the 1940s - is one of the best commentaries on those events in
print.

A Companion to The Current Justification Controversy
John W. Robbins
Trade paperback $9.95

This book includes documentary source material not available in The
Current Justification Controversy, an essay tracing the origins and
continuation of this controversy throughout American Presbyterian
churches, and an essay on the New Perspective on Paul by Robert L.
Reymond.

Cornelius Van Til: The Man and The Myth
John W. Robbins
Trade paperback $2.45

The actual teachings of this eminent Philadelphia theologian have
been obscured by the myths that surround him. This book penetrates
those myths and criticizes Van Til's surprisingly unorthodox views of
God and the Bible.

Counterfeit Miracles: A Defense of Divine Miracles Against Pagan, Medieval,
and Modern Marvels
Benjamin B. Warfield
Trade paperback $19.95

This book contains the 1918 lectures delivered by Professor Warfield
of Princeton Seminary. It is more timely today than it was 90 years
ago.

The Current Justification Controversy
0. Palmer Robertson
Trade paperback $9.95

From 1975 to 1982 a controversy over justification raged within
Westminster Theological Seminary and the Philadelphia Presbytery of
the Orthodox Presbyterian Church. As a member of the faculties of
both Westminster and Covenant Seminaries during this period, 0.

Palmer Robertson was an important participant in this controversy.
This is his account of the controversy, vital background for
understanding the defection from the Gospel that is now widespread in
American Presbyterian churches.

The Emperor Has No Clothes: Dr. Richard B. Gaffin Jr.'s Doctrine of

Justification

Stephen M. Cunha

Trade paperback $9.95

This book exposes Richard Gaffin's erroneous teaching on the
doctrine of justification.

For the King: The Trinity Review 1999-2008
Thomas W. Juodaitis, John W. Robbins, Editors
Oversize hardback $39.95

This is the third volume of 83 essays from The Trinity Review,
covering its third ten years, 1999-2008. This volume, like the first two,
is fully indexed and is very useful in research and in the classroom.
Authors include Gordon Clark, W. Gary Crampton, J. Gresham Machen,
Robert L. Reymond, and John W. Robbins.

God and Evil: The Problem Solved
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $5.95

This volume is Chapter 5 of Religion, Reason and Revelation, in
which Dr. Clark presents the Biblical solution to the problem of evil.

God-Breathed: The Divine Inspiration of the Bible

Louis Gaussen

Trade paperback $16.95

Gaussen, a nineteenth-century Swiss Reformed pastor, comments on
hundreds of passages in which the Bible claims to be the Word of God.
This is a massive defense of the doctrine of the plenary and verbal
inspiration of Scripture.

God's Hammer: The Bible and Its Critics
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $12.95

The starting point of Christianity, the doctrine on which all other
doctrines depend, is "The Bible alone, and the Bible in its entirety, is
the Word of God written, and, therefore, inerrant in the autographs."
Over the centuries the opponents of Christianity, with Satanic
shrewdness, have concentrated their attacks on the truthfulness and
completeness of the Bible. In the twentieth century the attack was not
so much in the fields of history and archaeology as in philosophy. Dr.
Clark's brilliant defense of the complete truthfulness of the Bible is
captured in this collection of eleven major essays.

The Holy Spirit
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $8.95

This discussion of the third person of the Trinity is both concise and
exact. Dr. Clark includes chapters on the work of the Spirit,
sanctification, and Pentecostal ism.

Imagining a Vain Thing: The Decline and Fall of Knox Seminary
Steven T. Matthews
Trade paperback $10.95

This expose by a former Knox student demonstrates how neglecting
the historical grammatical interpretation of the Reformation can lead
to all sorts of fanciful eisegesis and ultimately heresy. A case in point
is Warren Gage and the controversy surrounding his medieval
interpretation taught at Knox Theological Seminary.

Imperious Presbyterianism
Kevin Reed

Trade paperback $5.95

Contemporary Presbyterianism, even "conservative" Presbyterianism,
is not historic Presbyterianism. Instead, it is an authoritarian substitute
for the system of church government taught by the Bible and the
Reformers. Reed discusses the nature of the church, the ministry,
church membership, and ecclesiastical authority.

In Defense of Theology
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $9.95

In this book Dr. Clark addresses several groups of people who
oppose Christian theology: atheists, the Neo-orthodox, and the
Uninterested. All three hold a common opinion: Truth and theology have
nothing to do with each other. Dr. Clark demonstrates that theology is
truth, and as thoroughly intellectual as astrophysics - and a lot less
speculative.

The Incarnation
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $8.95

Who is Christ? The attack on the doctrine of the Incarnation in the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries was vigorous, but the orthodox
response was lame. Dr. Clark reconstructs the doctrine of the
Incarnation, building and improving upon the Chalcedonian definition.

The Johannine Logos
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $5.95

Dr. Clark analyzes the relationship between Christ, who is the truth,
and the Bible. He explains why John used the same word to refer to
both Christ and his teaching. Chapters deal with the Prologue to John's
Gospel; Logos and Rheemata; Truth; and Saving Faith.

See also What Is Saving Faith?

Karl Barth's Theological Method
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $18.95

Karl Barth's Theological Method is perhaps the best critique of the
Neo-orthodox theologian Karl Barth ever written. Dr. Clark discusses
Barth's view of revelation, language, and Scripture, focusing on his
method of writing theology, rather than presenting a comprehensive
analysis of the details of Barth's theology.

Logical Criticisms of Textual Criticism
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $3.25

Dr. Clark's acute mind enables him to demonstrate the

inconsistencies, assumptions, and flights of fancy that characterize the
science of New Testament criticism.

See also Commentaries on Paul's Letters.

Not Reformed at All: Medievalism in "Reformed" Churches
John Robbins and Sean Gerety
Trade paperback $9.95

This book is a response to and refutation of Douglas Wilson's book
"Reformed" Is Not Enough: Recovering the Objectivity of the Covenant.
Wilson, one of the leading figures in the Neolegalist movement in
Reformed and Presbyterian circles, attacked covenant theology and
proposed a "visible, photographable" covenant that one enters by ritual
baptism, making one a Christian. Wilson's "salvation" can be lost by
one's own lackluster performance or nullified by actions of authorized
representatives of the organized church. This refutation of Wilson is a
defense of the Gospel and the Covenant of Grace.

Not What My Hands Have Done
Charles Hodge, Horatius Bonar
Trade paperback $16.95

This is the combined edition of Justification by Faith Alone (by
Hodge) and The Everlasting Righteousness (by Bonar). Combined, these
books offer both an introduction to and an in-depth discussion of the
central doctrine of Christianity, justification by faith alone.

Papal Power: Its Origins and Development
Henry T. Hudson
Trade paperback $12.95

The origins and growth of an absolute monarchy claiming to be the
only genuine church of Jesus Christ is a story few Christians know - to
their great danger and detriment. This monograph is an excellent
discussion of the totalitarian Roman Catholic Church-State in the
Middle Ages, and its flourishing in the 21st Century.

Predestination
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $12.95

Dr. Clark thoroughly discusses one of the most controversial and
pervasive doctrines of the Bible: that God is, quite literally, Almighty.
Free will, the origin of evil, God's omniscience, creation, and the new
birth are all presented within a Scriptural framework. The objections of
those who do not believe in Almighty God are considered and refuted.
This edition also contains the text of the booklet, Predestination in the
Old Testament.

Sacramental Sorcery: The Invalidity of Roman Catholic Baptism
James H. Thornwell
Trade paperback $12.95

In 1845 the General Assembly of the American Presbyterian Church
declared that Roman Catholic baptism is not Christian baptism. Its
almost unanimous decision was immediately attacked by Charles
Hodge of Princeton Seminary. Thornwell wrote this defense of the 1845
decision, and Hodge never published a reply. Thornwell's book still
stands today, 160 years later, as the unrefuted argument
demonstrating the invalidity of Roman Catholic baptism. This book is
must reading for all Christians, especially for those proclaiming the
Gospel to Roman Catholics.

Sanctification
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $8.95

In this book Dr. Clark discusses historical theories of sanctification,
the sacraments, and the Biblical doctrine of sanctification.

Slavery and Christianity: Paul's Letter to Philemon
John W. Robbins
Trade paperback $6.95

For centuries the Bible has been twisted into a defense of slavery,
but Paul's letter to the slaveholder Philemon is clearly a document
endorsing freedom. Onesimus returns to Philemon "no longer as a
slave," but as a free man.

Study Guide to the Westminster Confession
W. Gary Crampton
Oversize paperback $10.95

This Study Guide can be used by individuals or classes. It contains a
paragraph-by-paragraph summary of the Westminster Confession, and
questions for the student to answer. Space for answers is provided.
The Guide will be most beneficial when used in conjunction with Dr.
Clark's What Do Presbyterians Believe?

A Theology of the Holy Spirit

Frederick Dale Bruner Trade paperback $16.95

First published in 1970, this book has been hailed by reviewers as
"thorough," "fair," "comprehensive," "devastating," "the most significant
book on the Holy Spirit," and "scholarly." Gordon Clark described this
book in his own book The Holy Spirit as "a masterly and exceedingly
well researched exposition of Pentecostalism. The documentation is
superb, as is also his penetrating analysis of their non-Scriptural and
sometimes contradictory conclusions." Unfortunately, the book is
marred by the author's sacramentarianism.

The Trinity
Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $12.95

Apart from the doctrine of Scripture, no teaching of the Bible is
more fundamental than the doctrine of God. Dr. Clark's defense of the
orthodox doctrine of the Trinity is a principal portion of his systematic
theology. There are chapters on the Deity of Christ; Augustine; the
Incomprehensibility of God; Bavinck and Van Til; and the Holy Spirit;
among others.

What Calvin Says
W. Gary Crampton
Trade paperback $10.95

This is a clear, readable, and thorough introduction to the theology of
John Calvin.

What Do Presbyterians Believe?

Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $10.95

This classic is the best commentary on the Westminster Confession
of Faith ever written.

What Is Saving Faith?

Gordon H. Clark
Trade paperback $12.95

This is the combined edition of Faith and Saving Faith and The
Johannine Logos. The views of the Roman Catholic Church, John Calvin,
Thomas Manton, John Owen, Charles Hodge, and B.B. Warfield are
discussed in this book. Is the object of faith a person or a proposition?
Is faith more than belief? Is belief thinking with assent, as Augustine
said? In a world chaotic with differing views of faith, Dr. Clark clearly
explains the Biblical view of faith and saving faith.

In The Johannine Logos, Dr. Clark analyzes the relationship between
Christ, who is the truth, and the Bible. He explains why John used the
same word to refer to both Christ and his teaching. Chapters deal with
the Prologue to John's Gospel; Logos and Rheemata; Truth; and Saving
Faith.

Clark’s Commentaries on the New Testament
Colossians

Trade paperback $6.95

Commentaries on Paul's Letters (Colossians, Ephesians, 1 and 2
Thessalonians, Logical Criticisms of Textual Criticism)

Hardback $29.95
Trade paperback $21.95
First Corinthians
Trade paperback $10.95
First John

Trade paperback $10.95

New Heavens, New Earth (First and Second Peter)

Trade paperback $10.95

The Pastoral Epistles (1 and 2 Timothy and Titus)

Trade paperback $21.95
Philippians

Trade paperback $9.95

All of Dr. Clark's commentaries are expository, not technical, and are
written for the Christian layman. His purpose is to explain the text clearly
and accurately so that the Word of God will be thoroughly known by every

Christian.

The Trinity Library

We will send you one copy of each of the 62 books listed above
(excluding single volumes included in combined works) for $600 (retail value
over $ 900), postpaid to any address in the United States. You may also
order the books you want individually on the order form on the next page.
Because some of the books are in short supply, we must reserve the right
to substitute others of equal or greater value in The Trinity Library. This
special offer expires October 31, 2014.